OCR Interpretation

The day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, April 29, 1916, LAST EDITION, Image 14

Image and text provided by University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1916-04-29/ed-1/seq-14/

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I do not know whether this is go
ing to count against my standing in
the public's estimation. But it is the
truth. My natural conservativeness,
together with the fact that I fancy
few people, has resulted in a list of
personal friends so restricted that I
can count them on the fingers of one
And this is directly traceable to my
schooldays, when girls said "Hello"
in a half-frightened way and went
home and told their mothers they
guessed I was a witch or something.
o o
By Betty Brown.
To introduce the Sports Girl of
1916 to readers of The Day Book I
photographed this model showing a
long coat in white diagonal silk belt
ed and "pocketed" with white leather
and skirt of white jersey cloth with
broad stripes of gold.
Mme. Caroline of the Fashion Art
League of America designed this
gold-white golf suit for a Coronado
Beach belle.
o o
I wandered in the graveyard where
the mighty men of yore are waiting
for the motorboat that runs to Ca
naan's shore. Upon a sunken mon
ument I sorely stubbed by toe.
Erected to the Memory
of Mr. Jonas Doe.
Thus read the epitaph I found,
along with age and size, and sundry
platitudes I guessed were mostly
honeyed lieu.
"And who was Jonas Doe?" I
asked. The sexton shook his head.
"He was some pumpkins once, I
guess, but lately he's been dead,"
I found a scboolhouse in New
York, named after John De Bunk. A
tablet said he died one time from eat
ing too much junk. But all the step
sons of De Bunk are scattered now,
or jailed, and so the great memorial
has rather sadly failed. Nobody
cares for old De Bunk, the kids at
school make jokes about how some
old guy who died left this school for
his folks.
It must be foolishness, I think, to
hack in steel and stone, the names of
men who while they lived were made
of flesh and bone. For every one will
he forgot, some soon and others late,
and why should any try to dodge this
warm and kindly fate? Why build a
barn and paint the walls all full of
silly dope about yourself and how
you were the great Caucasian hope?
Why try to get your monicker on
every cornerstone? No one will ever
read the stuff when your big ghost
has flown.
The moss will hide your litjlo-

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