MR. WEENIX
If I may be allowed to interrupt the clever Senator, I would like to say that my experience, and the experience of several of my constituents, bears out directly the point he has just made. It is high time that the people knew the truth in this matter. I am not versed in technical matters myself, but I understand from the newspapers (I have a clipping here from the Lima, Ohio, “Bee-Chronicle-News” which substantiates this statement) that not only have we no “surrey” chariots (whatever they may or may not be does not affect the situation), but, gentlemen, we have no whip-sockets to go in them! Think of that, – no whip-sockets!
MR. McNEE
May I say that I understand that whip-sockets are not used in “surrey” chariots; that the whip is carried in the driver’s teeth. This would account for none being built.
MR. WEENIX
I am exceedingly sorry that the Senator has seen fit to inject a partisan tone into the proceedings by attempting to defend the whip-socket situation. But, since he has started it, I can only say that the whole thing is a terrible fiasco and that the country should know who is to blame.
MR. CICERO
If I may be allowed to proceed, I have a few more remarks to address to this body on the subject of the Manilian Law which is under discussion. . . . Wherefore, if on account of their allies, though they themselves had not been aroused by any injuries, your ancestors waged war against Antiochus, against Philip, against the Aetolians, and against the Carthaginians –
MR. WINKLE
Mr. President –
THE PRESIDING OFFICER
Does the Senator from Rome yield to the Senator from Alabama?
MR. CICERO
Right-o.
MR. WINKLE
May I ask if the ingenious Senator refers to the inhabitants of Carthage?
MR. CICERO
Yes.
MR. WINKLE
I do not believe that the Senator understands my question. By “Carthaginians” does he mean “inhabitants of Carthage?”
MR. CICERO
Yes.
MR. WINKLE
Let me make myself clear. What is the place of residence of these Carthaginians? I ask for my own information, as I am not a technical man myself.
MR. CICERO
These people live in Carthage.
MR. WINKLE
Thank you. That is all that I wanted to know.
MR. CICERO
To continue. . . . With how much earnestness ought you, when you have been provoked to such –
MR. LAMKIN
Mr. President –
THE PRESIDING OFFICER
Does the Senator from Rome yield the floor to the Senator from South Dakota?
MR. CICERO
Like Hell I do. And, what is more, I am going to ask to have the remainder of my remarks on the Manilian Law inserted in the Record, and take up what is left of my time with a little song and some dance steps. Then, when I come to the chorus, everybody up and join in to your hearts’ content. Now is the time for co-operation. Cast party feeling to the winds, and let us all sing the first stanza of “Intiger Vitae,” number 264, in the song-book – now, altogether!
The motion was agreed to, and (at 5 o’clock and 20 minutes P.M.) the Senate took a recess until tomorrow, Wednesday, May 26, 1918, at 12 o’clock meridian.
Yes, thinking it over, if the Roman Senate was organized and managed in exactly the same manner as we have organized the Senate at Washington, we have certainly got to hand it to Cicero.
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The First Pigeon
of Spring
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To the Bird Editor:
I am a city boy, forty-four years old, and living in Forty-fourth Street, but taking a forty-five-year-old suit. I have always been interested in birds, but never could seem to get them interested in me. Most of my friends are men.
This was not what I wrote in to say, however. I have read in your columns where various people have seen “the first robin” or “the first thrush” while walking in the country, and they seem very proud of it. I thought that you might like to know that this morning I saw a pigeon right on my window sill. I do not know what the season for pigeons is, in the city, but I am sure that this was one of the first. The first today, anyway.
There couldn’t have been many ahead of it, because it was 5 o’clock in the morning when I saw it and it was just getting light. I had been out gathering mushrooms for breakfast and had just tumbled into bed, a little nervous after my experience. (I didn’t tell you what my experience was, as this is a letter about birds and I don’t suppose you would be interested. Maybe some other time.)
I had just dozed off into a stupor when I heard what I thought was myself talking to myself. I didn’t pay much attention to it, as I knew practically everything I would have to say to myself, and wasn’t particularly interested.
The mumbling increased, however, and what was more, seemed to be coming from the window. As I was in the bed across the room I didn’t like the look of things.
First, I tried to make out what the matter was, without opening my eyes. (Everything being equal, I would much rather not open my eyes – ever.) But it was no go. I couldn’t seem to get the right angle on the situation without taking at least one peek. This I did, and what do you think I saw? Oh, well, I guess you already know what it was, for, like a fool, I gave it away in the beginning of my letter when I told you I had seen the first pigeon of Spring. I could bite my tongue off.
Anyway, there was a big bull-pigeon walking about on the window ledge and giving me an occasional leer with its red eyes, all the while rumbling in a deep, bass voice and giving every indication of immediate attack. Quick as a wink I shut my eyes and lay still. There is no love wasted between pigeons and me, and I wanted to pass the matter off as quietly as possible.
I passed it off so quietly that I didn’t get around to opening my eyes again until around noon, and by then the pigeon had given up trying to intimidate me and had flown, or waddled elsewhere to try his bullying tactics on some man of less stern stuff.
But I am sure that it was a pigeon, and if any of your readers are interested in the sighting of early birds I am sure that they have been interested in this account. If they are not interested they have nothing on me.
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Vox Populi
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I am very sympathetic to marches for causes, provided I know what the cause is. Any group of people who will march through the snow and slush shouting slogans, must have something on their side. All I ask is that I can make out what they are shouting.
As I write this, a long line of people are marching under my office window, three abreast, shouting something in unison, or what they think is unison. There are a lot of them, and they look as if they were in earnest. They also carry signs.
My office is on the tenth floor, and my eyesight is not what it used to be. I have gone to the window eight times now and tried to spell out what the signs say, but the best I can make of it is “XXX XXXX BLOTTERS.” Now, they can’t be marching for blotters. That’s obvious.
I have strained my ears to try and catch the battle cry. This is what I get: “Five . . . Ten . . . Four and twenty! Five. . . Ten . . .four and twenty!” I still think that the nub of the argument has eluded me. Much as I would like to be with them, I can’t whip up any enthusiasm over “Five . . .Ten . . . Four and twenty!” and signs reading “XXX XXXX BLOTTERS.”
As a matter of fact, I am almost losing my sympathetic frame of mind. In another fifteen minutes (they are going ’round and ’round the block, so that the thing is continuous) I shall be definitely anti. Or crazy.
You may think that you don’t care what people are shouting if it is unintelligible. But just try and sit at a typewriter and compose one sentence in English with “Five . . . Ten . . . Four and twenty!” ringing through the street, especially when you know that it isn’t “Five . . .Ten . . .Four
and twenty!” that is being shouted.
I can’t even be sure that it is a parade of strikers. The last time one of those demonstrations took place under my window it was something about Dolfuss. For all I know, this may be a demonstration against the King of Greece, in whom I have only an academic interest, to say the least.
For all I know, it may be the Revolution – and here I sit!
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“Why I Am Pale”
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One of the reasons (in case you give a darn) for that unreasonable pallor of mine in mid-Summer, is that I can seem to find no comfortable position in which to lie in the sun. A couple of minutes on my elbows, a couple of minutes on my back, and then the cramping sets in and I have to scramble to my feet. And you can’t get very tanned in four minutes.
I see other people, especially women (who must be made of rubber), taking books to the beach or up on the roof for a whole day of lolling about in the sun in various attitudes of relaxation, hardly moving from one position over a period of hours. I have even tried it myself.
But after arranging myself in what I take, for the moment, to be a comfortable posture, with vast areas of my skin exposed to the actinic rays and the book in a shadow so that I do not blind myself, I find that my elbows are beginning to dig their way into the sand, or that they are acquiring “sheet-burns” from the mattress; that the small of my back is sinking in as far as my abdomen will allow, and that both knees are bending backward, with considerable tugging at the ligaments.
This is obviously not the way for me to lie. So I roll over on my back, holding the book up in the air between my eyes and the sun. I am not even deluding myself by this maneuver. I know that it won’t work for long. So, as soon as paralysis of the arms set in, I drop the book on my chest (without having read more than three consecutive words), thinking that perhaps I may catch a little doze.
But sun shining on closed eyelids (on my closed eyelids) soon induces large purple azaleas whirling against a yellow background, and the sand at the back of my neck starts crawling. (I can be stark naked and still have something at the back of my neck for sand to get in under.) So it is a matter of perhaps a minute and a half before I am over on my stomach again with a grunt, this time with the sand in my lips.
There are several positions in which I may arrange my arms, all of them wrong. Under my head, to keep the sand or mattress out of my mouth; down straight at my sides, or stretched out like a cross; no matter which, they soon develop unmistakable symptoms of arthritis and have to be shifted, also with grunting.
Lying on one hip, with one elbow supporting the head, is no better, as both joints soon start swelling and aching, with every indication of becoming infected, and often I have to be assisted to my feet from this position.
Once on my feet, I try to bask standing up in various postures, but this results only in a sunburn on the top of my forehead and the entire surface of my nose, with occasional painful blisters on the tops of my shoulders. So gradually, trying to look as if I were just ambling aimlessly about, I edge my way toward the clubhouse, where a good comfortable chair and a long, cooling drink soon put an end to all this monkey-business.
I am afraid that I am more the pale type, and should definitely give up trying to look rugged.
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My Own Arrangement
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The fact that more leaders of radio orchestras and bands are not murdered in their sleep by song writers is a great tribute to the mild manners of the song writers. I, in my tempestuous Mexican way, would have knifed several of them long ago if they had taken one of my tunes and “arranged” it in the current radio manner.
As every radio listener knows, when an orchestra leader announces “my own arrangement,” or “my own impression” of a song, the fun comes in trying to discover two successive passages of the original song. This cannot be so much fun for the composer of that song, if he happens to be listening in.
Suppose you had written a nice little waltz number, called, let us say, “Even the Daisies Are Blabbing, What I Can’t Confide in You.” And some night you hear over the radio an orchestra leader say: “And now, folks, I will play you my own interpretation of that delightful new number, ‘Even the Daisies Are Blabbing.’” Forthwith there comes a red-hot fox-trot, with one sustained note on the cornet and a series of trombone retchings, accompanied by an off-beat swishing of a fly-swatter on a drum. It isn’t even a waltz, much less your waltz. Would you burn up, or wouldn’t you?
I do not know whether Mr. Handy has ever heard what they have been doing to his “St. Louis Blues” all these years with their “special arrangements.” If he has, and isn’t stark, staring mad, then he is a great deal more phlegmatic than one would suppose the composer of that masterpiece to be. The “St. Louis Blues” has been ripped apart and sewed together again, kicked around and beaten, more than any one song in the history of music, and I am not forgetting “The Beautiful Blue Danube” either. It has got so that any one who can play one long note on the cornet can play the “St. Louis Blues.”
And now the pack has turned on Mr. Arlen’s “Stormy Weather,” easily the top number in its class, and a number especially dependent on its original orchestration for much of its effect. “Stormy Weather” hadn’t been on the market a week before it had been “arranged” to a point where no one bar of it could recognize another, and Mr. Arlen himself couldn’t recognize even the tempo. If there were a penalty for music-murder, there would be lots less “arranging” done over the radio.
And, while we are on the subject of the popular game of “Hide the Melody,” let us devote a word or two to those radio harmonizers who sing their version of a number in which the only thing that can be heard is the tenor or alto. They may be two sisters, or they may be four roustabouts, but when it comes time to get into the chorus, they are all tenors.
I used to play in a mandolin club when I was a boy (too big a boy to be playing in a mandolin club, I may say), but, as I was not quite strong enough on my tremolo, I always played second-mandolin. Being conscientious, if not expert, I used to practice the second-mandolin part at home alone. If you have ever heard a second-mandolin part being played alone without the air, you will understand why my mother felt that I wasn’t getting along in my music as fast as I might. She thought I was always playing the same tune. What my mother went through is no more than what radio-listeners are asked to go through when the close-harmony boys and girls get their heads together.
If a tune is good enough to play or sing, let’s hear it.
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Hey, Waiter!
* * *
Mr. Peters usually had his lunch sent in to his office, since it consisted of a glass of milk and perhaps a wisp of chicken. It seemed hardly worth while to check one’s coat and hat at a restaurant for just that, to say nothing of unfolding a napkin and telling a waiter about it. And besides, Mr. Peters was still a little self-conscious in restaurants. Something left over from his boyhood still haunted him with the feeling that he had got into the wrong dining-room. For, in spite of his long list of murder victims, Mr. Peters was at heart a timid and retiring citizen.
On certain occasions, however, he had to go out to lunch, as, for instance, when some out-of-town representative wanted to talk business. Out-of-town representatives can always talk business better when munching on a roll, and tablecloths are notoriously better scratch pads than office stationery, possibly because they cannot be saved and held against the scratcher. So on this particular day (you have no reason to know on what particular day yet, but you will have in just a minute) Mr. Peters found himself headed for the Belvidere grill with Mr. Hertz of the Oldtown Drop Forge and Tool company, to settle several unimportant things over a curry of lamb.
Mr. Hertz was no stranger to Mr. Peters, but he was not what you would call a “crony.” He was a rather disagreeable man, who always wor
e a stiff white shirt and a bow tie with a batwing collar, having decided early in his business career that an important man should dress in an important manner. In fact, his dress was one of the few ways that Mr. Hertz had of showing that he was an important man. His dress and his attitude toward underlings. In his attitude toward underlings he acted as Mussolini looks. (Come to think of it, when Mussolini is not dressed up as a carabinieri or a bersaglieri he also seems to be wearing a stiff white shirt and a batwing collar. This is probably just a coincidence.)
As they checked their hats and coats, Mr. Hertz began his campaign to show the employees of the establishment that he was not going to be imposed upon.
“Hang that coat somewhere where you can find it, now,” he said to the girl. “I don’t want to have to stand around all night waiting when I come out.” And then he added to Mr. Peters: “You have to watch these girls. They’re a dumb bunch.”
The girl, who was a friend of Mr. Peters, said she would do her best to put the coat where she could remember it. Mr. Peters slipped her a wink and a quarter in advance. It wouldn’t be such a great loss, he thought to himself, if Mr. Hertz did lose that coat. It was like something you take along on a camping trip in case the nights get cold.
The head waiter, who was also a friend of Mr. Peters, led them to a table by the window, usually considered a choice location by those who like to see what they are eating, especially if it is bluefish. But Mr. Hertz took it as a personal affront.
“What are you trying to do; freeze us to death?” he growled at the head waiter.
His tone implied that the man was a member of a gang in conspiracy to get this guy Hertz at any cost. He even went to the window and examined the casing.
Chips Off the Old Benchley Page 18