New-York tribune. [volume], November 23, 1919, Page 7, Image 73

About New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924

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At Oar Political Teas
THESE are the days of political
teas. The fact is the political
tea, if men would only take it
seriously, is menacing the very foun?
dations of what they regard as their
unassailable citadel, and the gentle
ladies scjueezing lemon into their tea?
cups are preparing a nice acidulated
brew for the future delectation of
the male.
A mere man wanderingly inad?
vertently into one of the teas that
preceded the election would have had
the shock of his life had he been
able to hear what was going on
without making his presence known.
Of course, a woman's tea is no place
for a man, any more than the saloon
is?or was?the place for a woman.
It is true that an occasional unfor?
tunate is inveigled toward the te?
table because he has rashly prom?
ised to say a little piece. In hi:
campaign of educating women on tin
problems of tike day it is sometime'
of his discourse; more likely he
doesn't.
A political lion is just as good as
any other to have at a tea. Of
course he isn't as picturesque as an
author or an artist; but then he
knows how to handle his audience.
The only time he feels really at
I home at the political tea i^ while he
{is in action. Here he is on his own
ground. But the minute he con?
cludes his peroration and a polite
ripple of handclapping mingled with
the babble of many voices, soft and
6trident, breaks loose, he remembers
how big and clumsy his hands and
feet are; how corpulent his vest;
how thin the hair on top of his head.
He is presented with a delicate
teacup, which he nervously balances
in an equally delicate saucer. He is
given a morsel of cake, which he
holds for show while he talks to
twenty women clamoring at once.
He finally swallows it at one fell
swoop, just as Miss Gurgle asks him
necessary ?to rope in a political ex?
pert to disentangle the intricacies he
has helped to evolve.
With the macaroons and the china
reposing invitingly on a spindling
table before him, the bold politician
begins his speech. He talks down to
his audience. This is the sad part
of the political tea. The women sigh
about it. Perhaps it's the proximity
of the teacups and the eternal asso?
ciation of tea and feminine chatter
in the mind of the male. Anyway,
he makes a pretty little speech with
many references to the power, the
influence and the charm of the fair
sex. He brazenly wraps his every
sentence in sugar-coating. Maybe
he talks a little about politics in a
patronizing fashion before the end
what he thinks of the new income
tax. He poises himself dexterously
; first on one leg and then on the other.
And as soon as he can safely do eo,
he makes a dive for the door, dodg?
ing questions at every step and bow?
ing amiably right and left with an
effective air of finality.
Whew! The pink and the purple
periods are over. The air becomes
i blue, not wdth smoke?oh, no, they
j don't smoke cigarettes at political
teas?but with ideas. They begin to
exchange notes on what the gallant
gentleman has told them. How wise
they feel! And then they go home
and unload it all on poor, long-suf?
fering hubby, who wishes to God
that pink teas still were the fashion
instead of political pow-wows.
The Meeting Over Here
HE CAME back from France
with four decorations before
he could vote or even needed
to use a razor. Naturally he was
reasonably proud of his laurels,
though in the modest way of the
average doughboy. He just "hap?
pened to be there," "any one else
would have done the same," and
"he was lucky to come through with
a whole skin," he said.
More than his decorations he
prized the fact that he had been a |
member of the Foreign Legion. Thi?:
distinction consisted not only in that
many of its members began fighting
for France before the United States
actually entered the war, but also
in a peculiar custom of the Ameri
?can members of the legion.
Deeming themselves fitly the
finest of their kind, modern knights
of ?ahivalry and adventure, willing
to undertake any hopelessly desper?
ate enterprise, the Legionaires had
sworn an awful oath. They had in?
dividually chosen members of the
Piussian Guard as their mortal ene?
mies, and had vowed to have the life
of one or more members of the
guard in individual combat,
Often while waiting the zero hour ?
noticed a rather taciturn doorman !
who looked oddly foreign. The fel- j
low was winning enough and evi- '?
dently knew a good deal about shift- \
ing scenery, but clearly he was a !
stranger even among the millions of ;
foreign-born in New York.
Something about the fellow's j
stiff bearing recalled a certain July
afternoon when the German tide
was turned back from the Marne.
He approached the stagehand and
asked if he was not a German.
"Yes," the other admitted in
broken English. ? j
"How long have you been over ?
here?"
"Three weeks."
"How did you get here?"
"Slipped in through Holland and
then by ship."
"Were you in the German army?" j
"Yea."
"What division?"
"The Prussian Guard."
The Legionary started back, ut?
terly nonplused. At last, his sworn
enemy !
Memories of days in the trenches
and nights in No Man's Land flashed
he uau lOOKed iorward to the exact
moment of meeting. From others he
had learned how the Guardsmen
might be told, not only by their
peculiar method of attack, but aiso
by their unique uniforms, particu?
larly the decorated helmet.
The decorations ho brought home
with him amply testified to an inti?
mate acquaintance with the Boche
with hand grenade, pistol and bayo?
net, but in all his action it so hap?
pened that never to his knowledge
did he meet a member of the Prus?
sian Guard. The one thing he would
have boasted about he was unable
to boast, and his disappointment, in
warrior's vein, was very keen.
The armistice and subsequent de?
mobilization prevented the complete
extinction of the guard. He re?
turned late last summer to Broad?
way and stepped as from a dream
back into his accustomed place about
a local theater, and became Hard
? wt&ke Nevin, civilian again and
press agent.
Ona day soon after bio return he
back over hira as he had never
thought possible, so far away and
dreamlike the past had already be?
gun to be. Was he dreaming, or
was he really in civvies and back
home ?
Yes, there was the stage, beyond
it the yawning gloom of the orches?
tra, and outside a street organ was
playing "Bubbles." And the two
of them both out of uniform. But
the treaty of peace was not yet
signed, and
The ex-Guardsman spske, 'break- :
ing in upon the other's feverish !
train of thought.
"Got a fag?"
Fritz doubtless remembered hear?
ing how generous the Americans
were with their cigarettes with
captured Germans. So it was a
very much astonished ex-Guards?
man who, instead of getting a fag, !
saw a slim young man in front of
him suddenly burst out Into ironical
laughter, turn on his heel and
stride away a? If he had never
heard a word.
You Know New York, But?
Do You Know These Glimpses of It?
5
F' OU really should brush up on your history if you don't know something about thh one. It is
St. Mark's Church (Stuyvesant Place near 10th Street and Second Avenue), one of the city's
oldest churches. In its east wall is set the tombstone of Peter Stuyvesant, the wooden-legged
hero who was the last of New Amsterdan-.fs four Dutch Governors in Colonial times, in 1844 he
planted a pear tree at 13th Street and Third Avenue, "by which his name might still be remem?
bered/* it thrived for 200 years. ?Photograph and text by Charles Pkelp* Cicshing.
What Is To Be the Fate of Those German Bands?
NOW that German opera sing
ars have finally concluded that
New York doesn't want to
hear them, there is time for reflec?
tion on the possible fate* of the lit?
tle German bands of street players
who used to tootle about New York
in ante-bellum days.
There Vere a dozen such organi?
zations then, consisting of from
three to five players (it requires no
great effort to refrain from calling
them musicisr"-*}, and so industrious
were they that any apartment dwell?
er in the five boroughs would have
cast aside scruples against betting
and wagered his unopened pay en?
velope that every other man in the
street devoted a part of his waking
moments to scraping or blowing in
a German band.
They were ubiquitous. A man
would be awakened by "Die Wacht
am Rhein" in the morning, and, while
blustering and condemning them- as
a nuisance, would secretly take joy
in the fact that martial music was
speeding his reluctant fingers
through clothes-buttoning and shoe
lacing, adding an extra minute to
his allotted time for newspaper read?
ing at the break-feat table. ?Some?
times he'd toss two ox three pennies
out of the window and shamefacedly i
withdraw from eight before the ]
coins had been expertly netted in i
the hat of the coin collector below.
At noon, when the flat dweller
left hi? office for a hurried glass of
beer and a plate of free lunch, a
German band would be there with
the cadence of some German drink?
ing song. The drinker wouldn't feel
impelled to drop anything in the hat
of the band's collector that time, be?
cause he'd know the playera were
simply working out their meal at the
free lunch counter.
Then when he'd return home at
night there would be a German band,
perhaps the very same German
band, playing "The Blue Danube"?
and how they could play it! To one
who can't distinguish do, re, me from
fa, sol, la, when played on a steam
calliope that was the very essence
of music; and if potatoes were
scorched, or somebody needed new
shoes, it didn't necessarily mean that
somebody was always taking the joy
out of life.
Some days were red letter occa?
sions on the calendars of the Ger?
man bandsmen. One such was the
i birthday of George Ehret, the brew
[ er. An accurate census of German
bands could have been made at the I
Ehret brewery and Ehret home on
Mr. Ehret's natal day, The leaders
of the little groups of players must
have liad the date pasted in the
crowns of their hats, for none of
them* ever failed to serenade the j
old man.
Mr. Ehret was seventy-seven in
April, 1012. Early in the morning \
the aged brewer was awakened by
"The Blue Danube." He looked out ?
of the window, counted the musi- '
cians and sent them six $1 bills and j
a blanket pass into the brewery.
Then he started to dress. Before !
he had reached his shoes there was i
another band. They started off
with "Die Wacht am Rhein" and
then switched inte "The Blue Dan?
ube." Mr. Ehret counted eight mu?
sicians this time and sent the leader
that many $1 bills and the usual
magic pass to the brewery.
This kept up, with hardly a break,
all through the morning, and when
Mr. Ehret wont to his office he
found that a German band had an?
ticipated his arrival. After he had
dispensed aoout $200 in $1 bills,
and several vats of beer had been
drained, some fharp-eyed employee
: of the brewery, who was becoming
weary of the endless playing of the
two tunes, discovered that individu?
als in the different bands were re?
peaters. When the band departed it
was followed. At a saloon in Sec?
ond Avenue there were congregated
the members of eight German bands.
There it was discovered that after
these had each serenaded Mr. Ehret
once, a financial genius among thejn
had contrived a schedule of combi?
nations, so that an endless variety of
little German bands was kept, on the
road between the Second Avenue sa?
loon and the brewery.
When Mr. Ehret returned home
that night he was accompanied by
a husky driver of one of his big
trucks. There was a German band
waiting in the area entrance. The
driver talked with them briefly.
Then the band vanished, and
through the rest of the night two
policemen remained on guard, to see
that Mr. Ehret was allowed to cel?
ebrate his birthday in something like
a normal fashion.
There have not been any licenses
issued to German street bands since
1915. That was the year theLusitania
was sunk. Perhaps it is just a co?
incidence, but it is better than an
even bet that the next time a Ger?
man band p!aj*s in New York it
will carry a large and vivid sign
bearing these words. "The Little
Czecho-SloVakian Playera," or even
: "The Jugo-Slovak Band."
Shave? Manicure?
A MOONLIT garden is a far
better settine for a romance
than a Nassau Street barber
! *?hop. No author would take a
! shiny hatbox of a barber shop, ju3t
1 off Fulton Street, as the place for a
; meeting and mating. Only a teller
; of true city tales, a guy who didn't
; know the writing rules, would do
! that.
For more than three years Frank
? was the best and smilingest barker
i in the mirrored aperture of Nas
i sau Street's wall of assorted enter?
prise which is the scene of all the
acts of this piece.
A man who worked downtown also
shaved downtown, because Frank
: was there. This man used to get
! shaves and haircuts uptown, but once
! he had been too late to get a shave
! in the morning and had gone during
j the noon place into the place where
| Frank worked. Frank was so smil
! ing, so efficient and so all-around
; a good barber that he made a regu
j lar patron of the transient. A lit
! tie girl named Mae?no manicurist
i spelb it with a final "y"?made his
j nails look like a debutante's, even
' though he had been tending the fur
| nace this morning.
? The man was married and had a
| baby, which, according to the man,
the crowds which made a carpet of
breadwinners on Nassau Street. He
rubbed his chin?reflectively, the au?
thors call it?and felt the need of
a shave. Frank?he remembered
quickly and pleasantly. He recalled
Mae, too, a bit sheepishly, because
they had honebtly been almost
friends with him and he hadnt
dropped downtown to see them once
in two years.
The old barber shop looked the
same, except for a new second chair
and a new man behind. The proprie?
tor, small, stout and Italian, had a
hearty greeting for his long missing
patron,
"Where's Frank?" the man asked.
The little proprietor, being Latin
and expressive, hunched his shoul?
ders till the edges of them were as
high as his ears, while he held his
hands over his paunchy midriff,
palms front. It was the Sicilian
gesture denoting doubt and sorrow.
"Frank went -J war," he said, sim?
ply. "No exemption, he just went
October, I think, two years ago
First to Yaphank. Upton, you know,
then to France. He's buried there
some place."
The little proprietor was affected
deeply, the man saw. He was shak
? ing his head as though he were say*?
! was nued with dry humor, so his j
| interest in Mae never left his finger
' tips. He liked to sit opposite her
r occasionally, just as any man likes
; to sit opposite any pretty girl, no
matter how cute the things his baby
' says.
A little more than two years ago
the man got a much better offer
from a firm uptown, and, as his baby
. needed a new crib and lots of toys,
he took iL As he lived on Wash?
ington Heights and had no relatives
in Brooklyn he seldom, or never,
came downtown.
One day last week his old boss
called him downtown, asked how
much he was getting uptown, added
$20 a week to that figure, and told
him to report on Monday. The man'b
wife wanted a new fur coat, so he
reported.
He ate in a restaurant over a sa?
loon on Beekman Street, where he
had eaten in the old day?. He
missed the good beer they used ti
have. He looked over the new
cupola on the City Hall and watched
ing "no" emphatically. He must
have liked Frank.
"But Mae?where's she?" the m,an
asked.
The little proprietor turned away.
He 3eemed not to want to talk much,
The bootblack, also a veteran in the
shop's service, spoke up.
"You know," he said, sort of puz?
zled, "Frank, before he go, marry
Mae. She read his letter to us firs'.
Then none come. Two day, t'ree?
mebbe week or mont', he don't write,
she tell us."
The bootblack added, in effect, that
after six weeks without letters she
had suddenly disappeared from the
shop. Tiie boss went to her house,
the bootblack said, because he didn't
like to see her cry. The boss waited
for more than four hours, according
to the best information the boot?
black had, but she didn't come home.
The boss stili goes there, mostly on
Sunday afternoons, the bootblack
added, but the landlady who answers
the doorbell always .--hakes her head
and i;ays she hasn't returned as yet.
Not Waiting for Trains
BACK in the home town from
which many of us have come
hanging around the station to
1 "see the train come in" was, of
j course, an honorable and popular
? diversion. One would not expec'
I this custom to prevail here, where
| the arrival of a train is signalized
j only by a wild and tinny rumbling
i somewhere- in the depths of the
i structure and an eleventh hour line
i flashed on the bulletin board to the
, ?{Feet that train No. 27 is arriving
j at the other end of the terminal
; after all. Yet at most hours of
| the day the New Yorkers in the
waiting rooms of Manhattan's two
great terminals outnumber the pas?
sengers.
They do not, it is true, come to
see the trains come in or iro out: re
center seems superfluous after one
long and earnest gaze into these
.warm marble halls, bigger than the
throne room of Cleopatra, and mod
| eled, indeed, in the case of the Penn
j sylvania, after the famous publio
baths of ancient Rome. Here, under
the replicas of the vails where
Caesar met his friends of an after
; noon, now linger Mr. Bangs, of Har
| lern, and Mrs. Bings, of Brooklyn,
j elbowing amiably with Red Duggina,
I of Oklahoma, and Cy Higgins, of
! Vermont.
One hss to Pfand in most hotel lob?
bies, where the seats are alTrsy? ?*?
cupied by retired horse dealers from
the West and the kind of organism
which all morning writes letters to
itself, care of the mail clerk, and
all afternoon sits reading them.
verberating announcements that the ?
Philadelphia express will leave on j
Track 12 cause no emotion among
them; the shabby man whone news?
paper has fallen on the floor and
whose hat obscures one eye sleeps
on; the two ladies who simply
can't decide who is to pay for that
lunch debate with undiminished
vigor; the tired shopper's child con?
tinues his shrill "Beep-beep-beep,"
which represents, to his mind, the
whistle of tthe Broadway Limited on
rounding the Horseshoe Curve, and
over in the corner a lounge lizard
finishes explaining how he "slipped
the cashier a dime on top of
the check and b quarter under it
and got 70 cents worth of grub for
85 cents that day."
All this talk of the used of a ?Me
Therefor' ? ?. g ?es to tne Station,
where th* re is always room.
Commuters ru?h madly through
the hall?ah. not for them are these
long benches, with comfortable re?
clining backs. Chicagoari3 and Pitte
burghers par.t wearily in an effort
to keep up with the porters, who,
with their baggage, are rapidly dis?
appearing in the dim usta of tha
concourse beyond; incoming voy?
agers, their eyes blinking in beccro
! ing astonishment at the city's won?
ders, stumble past.
But the New Yorker sits on, fin
! ishing his pipe or waiting for his
date, catching up on her knitting or
wondering where to go for tea.
Who says the New Yorker is a
rushing, restless creature? Just
look into the waiting room!