Life — May 24, 1928 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

toes and acidophilous milk, albeit mayhap I do beg the question in attribut- ing any interest in food soever to them whose minds are fixed on lofty thoughts. To play bridge for charity this afternoon on the SS. Saturnia, the interior decora- tion of which was so horrendous that I could scarce keep my mind on the game and my opponents almost broke even with the Italian Welfare Association from acharitable standpoint. To the playhouse in the evening to see “Diamond Lil,” a piece as authentic and diverting as any- thing I have seen this season. My husband, poor wretch, ill of a headache from a bachelor dinner which he did attend last night but not so far gone that he could not recount to me the livelier episodes of the affair, an ability which I do consider one of his most satisfactory characteris- tics as a spouse, and his mother does tell me that even as a child, when his con- temporarics would stand dumb under interrogation as to what had gone forward atany given function, Sam would remem- ter what he had been given to eat and what clothing various people had worn, which, getting down to fundamentals, is what almost every woman wants to know. So I did dose him with remedies appro- priate for his malady and commend Fien to stop the day at home, advice which he accepted with childish enthusiasm, in especial when I assured him that I would make a bad throat sound convincing to his partners over the telephone, nor did my Good-Samaritanism go unrewarded, neither, for when he did hear me discuss- ing with my sempstress whether I should indulge in a new evening wrap for sum- mer or make out with Spanish shawls, as May Femate Tourist: Oh, isn’t this wonderful! Mate Same: Well, nice and cool inside, but it’s a lot gloomier than a genuine movie theater, usual, he did bawl from his couch of pn that I must have the new garment, by all means, adding, to take the edge from his softheartedness, that he did not choose to spend any more of his life untangling shawl fringe from automobile doors and theater chairs. A quiet day at home, a dinner of ham tenderloin and reens, very fine, and then reading in a k called “The Closed Garden,” by Julian Green, who wrote it first in French, and I do wish to set down here that another great writer is amongst us, and if twenty-five years does change my opinion I shall be not astonished but dumfounded. Baird Leonard. Inbad the White From reading the “Radical” weeklies I find The White Man is always unjust and un- kind. Whenever he deals with a barbarous race His argument’s always a punch in the face. The Yellow, the Black, or the Red, or the Brown— He kicks them about and he tramples them down, The soldiers of America, France Are bandits and plunderers seeking a chance, England, A pretext to rob or to cave in the head Of Brown or of Yellow, of Black or of Red. If you do not believe that your own kind of folks Are all of them cruel and high-handed blokes, It proves you're a mossback, unable to think; Since Radicals know that the Malay and Chink, The Dato, the Kaffir, the Moro are right And no one is wrong but the black- hearted White! Berton Braley. “Div tHey convict that night club dancer?” “No. They couldn't get anything on her.” Tue Pressep-Wuice-You-Wart EstanuisHMent CatcHes ON Fire comicbooks.com