Judge — August 25, 1917 — page 18: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A little matter of 1000 years. The Literary Adventures of T. Chumleigh Jones Y NAME is T. Chumleigh Jones. Rather a pretty M name, I think it, and so does my man Hawkins. I belong to the great family of the Joneses. But then I can’t help that. Tam an author. I mean, I write. I have written several things. Some of them were rather good, I thought, and so did my man Hawkins, whom I caught surreptitiously reading them. Such is the lure of all great literature. But the colossal misfortune of it all is that I cannot get my work accepted by the editors. Not only that but I cannot get it fo the editors. This is, to say the least, remarkable, for I go about it in quite a regular manner. To make certain I take the MS. down to the postbox myself. On our corner we have one of those postboxes that resemble a baby hippo opening its mouth for flies. I mean, it has a wide green mouth. It is marked D. S.C. I’ve ne what D. S.C. means, but I take it it must mean De Sure and Certain, or Deposit Stamped Cards. Or something that. You know one can never be quite sure of these things. I always deposit my work carefully. Yet with all my care I have never received any comm my work, and I learned on inquiry that the editors never even received There has been a conspirac inst me. Just to make sure the mails are not what they ought to be I deposited my last MS. not in the wide-mouthed recepts son but in a certain rather superior mailbox a block off, a pagoda- like steel affair. Upon it was distinctly lettered: ‘Deposit Papers Here.” Then, to make sure, I waited. Others came up with their morning mail. One with a news- paper, one with a broken umbrella he was evidently sending to be repaired, still another with a handful of orange peel he was doubtless posting to the marmalade factory. Then the postman drove up, a sturdy, thickset individual in brown uniform and cap. He emptied the box into his wagon. He was quite careful of its contents. Surely everything was all right so far. “Hi, my good man,” I called as he drove off. “Are you sure that matter will go to its correct destination?” He replied, rather gruffly, I thought, that he was. And yet I have had no word from my last novel! I told Hawkins about it, but his face bore that impenetrable and inscrutable look of his. I admire Hawkins. He is a model of self-suppression. —Earl Simonson. THE RELISH yor can skip the soup or olives, the salad or dessert; You may eat from birch-bark plates or none at all; One can manage without fork or spoon, if driven to contrive, And can banquet in a hut or pompous hall. But there’s one thing you are sure to want, in palace or in cot, Whether dining with a hobo or a king: To eat with any relish—whatever be the fare A little tang of salt’s the needed thing! Fate doesn’t take our orders, but serves a table d’héte. You must eat your given ration like a man! The salt of life is humor; without it all is flat— So be sure to put a pinch in when you can. —Tudor Jenks. “Yes, I've been in the submarine service for several years.” “Oh! How interesting! By-the-way, how do you get the salt water out of your hair?”