Life — November 30, 1922 — page 4: what you’re looking at

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

November 24th All the morning gone in taking stock of my household linen, and downhearted at finding so many of my sets broken; when we have in- formal meals in the future, I in- tend to search all the male guests before they leave, being certain that the zanies stuff my supper napkins into their pockets under the delusion that they are putting away their handkerchiefs. And women must do the same with tea napkins, albeit what can be done about that I know not.... To an inn for luncheon with several others of my sex, and there was a great hubbub over the bill in that each tried to pay for exactly what she had eaten instead of an even share of the whole, and Lord! I should rather have paid it all out of my own pocket than been witness to such a disgraceful scene, with money flashing back and forth across the table. November All day on a couch of 25th pain, reading now and then from Julian Street’s “Rita Coventry,” a diverting book. But the hero convinces him- self that he will have a happier future with the home-keeping Alice than he would have had with the radiant Rita if she had not given him his congé. How he could do so well is beyond me, Alice being the female type which sends exactly ten words in a telegram and looks hurt when spoken to sharply. . . .Samuel home early from the club to cheer me, in high glee over a tayle they are telling on Harvey Wilkes to the effect that Harvey, playing in a high stake game of bridge as partner of the irascible Mr. Davidson, and overlooking the Ace of Diamonds in his hand at a moment when he should have played it, did slip the card into a tongue sandwich he was eating and consume it utterly, there- by making the hand appear a mis- deal. And Sam did mix one of his new cocktayles, the finest ever I tasted, and after imbibing two of them I felt like the man in the Scrip- tures who took up his bed and walked. November Lay late, ruminating 26th on this and that. This (Lord’s Day) is the week in which Thanksgiving does fall, and I do give thanks to God that we are not bidden forth to any family dinner on that day, as we were last year. Nor shall we have turkey ourselves, neither. . . . Set aside this after- noon for rearranging the books, having noticed “too Salads and How to Make Them” alongside of Walter Pater’s “Appreciations” the other day. But Lord! I fell a-read- ing of almost every volume I took from the shelves, so that when the Mannings dropped in upon us at the tea hour, I had made no progress soever. B. Manning did ask me if I remembered having borrowed ten dollars from her once upon a time. Whereupon I asked her if she did not remember my returning it once upon another time. And she did not. Nor will she accept it now, be- cause of my question. Thus will she have a moral edge on me, for God knows she is more likely to be right than I am. BS. Deprivations (Apologies to Edwin Meade Robinson) RAYON portraits and pewter C plates, Classic dancers who show their knees, Fancy waistcoats and paper-weights, Talcum powders that scent the breeze, Ouija boards and the mysteries Of spirit land that mystics spout; These are matters which, if you please, I can worry along without. Cornet soloists, garden fetes, Formal dinners and stylish teas, Movie serials, loud debates Upon political policies, Spinach, artichokes, cheese, Radicals red who mouth and shout, These are matters which, fate decrees, I can worry along without. Roquefort Lean lounge lizards with pates, Theatre patrons who cough and sneeze, The T. B. M. who cachinnates At every mouldy old vaudeville wheeze; Books that wallow in all degrees Of gloom and trouble, despair and doubt, These are matters which, yes, with ease, I can worry along without. glossy Envoy. Editors, whom I must appease In all the matters I sing about, Do not answer by saying, “These I can worry along without!” B.B. We Americans N American Magnate sat in his high-backed Renaissance chair, before a long refectory table, which he used in lieu of a desk in his beau- tifully appointed office. He wore a suit of unmistakably English cloth and cut, and his well-made brogues rested on a handsome Persian rug. His arduous day- was over; he had dictated many letters to his bright little Irish stenographer, interviewed three Dutch agents in regard to some oil interests and his Canadian boot- legger about a shipment of genuine Scotch. He was about to run up in comicbooks.com