Evening Star Newspaper, September 27, 1925, Page 70

o THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. T, SEPTEMBER 27, 1925—PART 5. Where the Pigeons Go to Die BY MICHAEL ARLEN | It Was Love at First Sight, but She Had Already Promised to Marry Some One Else OW it is as much as their jobs are worth fc responsible for t man the amenities > town not to employ a n the clear understand- every once In a while he <imbo 10 the very top of Lord Nel son’s column in Trafalgar Squure to cleanse away such refuse‘us might have collected about the immortal sailor’s feet. And it i3 to the good man who undertukes this perilous task that we owe @ piece of information which cannot fail to inter-st gentles und simples. He tells how he finds numerous pigeons lving dead about the feet our saflor hero. Some- times there willi be not more thun a score or so, sometimes there may be close on a hundred, and he relates an oath how he once removed, in a which he takes up with him for bodies of pigeons 146: among which, awe, there was the corpse white dove. hat was on the evening of the 1st of the vear of grace 1924, and on why the good man tells with awe of the dove among the pigeons is because it was on that very evening that he was vexed by a strange phenomenon. The facts may interest the cu The prodigious nuniber pigeons had kept him at his G later than usual; and as be the ve chanced to Lord Nels who ood at th ment in the light and shad sun as it set beyond Admiralty Arch. and the good man fancled that the stern face of my Unseemly though it is to doubt any man’s word, the skeptical sort may be permitted to question whether the fellow was at that moment seeing stra: t, and whether it was not the fanciful light of twilight that had set him iking that Lord Nelson had indulged In a passing frown. But to more kindly folk the good man’ will not present such ing that hi the authorities | Lord Nelson frowned. | Kensington she did not join the people walting for omnibusses at the corner of Marble Arch and Park lane, They | who had been in such haste & mo- | ment before now walted so quletk: | o uneagerly, as though they didn't care whether they were going home or not. The stillness of Park lane seemed to Miss Wych very refreshing after the din of the panting hosts of Oxford street. She walked in the broken shadows of the Park rallings. nd a voice at her shoulder sald: xcuse me! Please excuse me. I you must excuse me!” S 1\ ISS WYCH .walked on in the| broken shadows of the Park rafl-| | Ings. And her eyes were turned to | the sun, which did not know it was sinking Into Kensington Gardens, for what else was there to look at? Then a bird flew across Park lane and sat on a window sill, and Miss Wych looked at that. “Please,” said the voice at her | shoulder. = “You see, Miss Wych, 1 | must, For I can’t bear it any more, | honestly. Don't be beustly to me, please!’ Miss Wych thought: “This is a fine | thing, being spoken to by strange men! T suppose I look commen or fluehy or something, else he wouldn't dure. What shall I do; oh, what shall Ido? What do women do | “Look here,” said the voice at her| shoulder, “1 can't keep this up any | |longer. T'm no good at speaking t people I don’t know. Good-bys “Good-bye,” said Miss Wych. “Oh, you've spoken!"’ cried the voice at her shoulder. Miss Wych said: extraordinary behavior. away.” Miss Wych had intended to say that icily, but in point of fact she said it very shyly. There was a girl who worked with her in the millinery de- partment of Messrs, Come & Go who sald: “When I don't like a boy T just ‘Nl, “This is very Please g0 marvelou ures when they know that it was on the evening of that | Ist of May that Miss Pamela Wych came upon un event beneath Lord Nelson's eyes that completely changed the course of her whole lite, * * of Miss Wych & evening cool eves suded that h was thinking. Al about London of Oxford street | 1d screamed and hooted, but ing, ulone | 1. The Lon- | 1 street was like a sofled i erchief waving s the eveninz sun, hut the genius €2 thought draped the voung lithe fig- wrs with a rare, calm dignity. Now Miss Wych was nearly v calm, | r such her nature. But she was not always dignified, for dignity | comes very ri to vouth, dignity 1s o gentle blossom that grows with the vears, and when dignity comes to vouth it comes always unconsciously, it is fleeting, frail, sad. We are not aking of the dignity of unger, but the dignity ¢ Miss Wych the marched Miss W asat don trantieally | te was at her | the millinery depart- ment of Mes Come & Go, Miss Wyeh had been saying to herself: “T must think. T will think this evening. One doesn't think nearly enough. I will think a lot this evening. 1 will walk home. thinking. I do hope it keeps fine.” That s what Miss -Wych had thought, for she was very conscien- tious in the fulfillment of her duties in the millinery department, and she al- ways did her best not to intrude her private concerns into her service of Messrs. Come & Go. Not that either | Mr. Come or Mr. Go could pos-| sibly have noticed it if she had, since | her service was but an atom among the service of 1,500 employes. Miss Wych had never so much as| set eyes on her employers, but she | would wonder a great deal about| them, and she would wonder particu- | %urly about the great men’s yvouth. Now N Wych admired success above all thin Those clear cool eves looked at life, this teeming chaotic life In which she was an atom of service, and as she looked at life | 1 prince in shining armor of gold and sapphire stepped forth from the bofl- ing ranks, brave with triumph, flam-| ing with vouth, indeed a very prince | of princes. iud the name of this| prince was Swecess. That is how Miss | Wych thought of success, like a_glori- | ous loves. She loved success like a| glorfous lover. And once upon a time | she had tried to win him for herself. | Miss Wych had once tried her fortune ! on the stage, but unfortunately the mlorfous lover had looked very coldly on her, for, as the producer had said: “Miss Wych is a nice girl but a bum | actress.”’ | The gentle clrcumstance of evening | transmuted the trumpeting and sofled | machines on the road Into shining| caravans, but never a glance at these wonders did Miss Wych give. Of the passers-hy, one and all hurrying to the aseault of tubes and omnibusses, | maybe one here and there forfefted | his place through looking twice at Miss Wych. Miss Wych was a very pretty girl. Her eyes were gray.| Her nose would have looked absurd on any one else's face, because it was so emall. Her face was as white as the moon Since she had made up her mind to walk to her boarding house in South allotted s i |-the | stranger, however, did not go off. The | deep. dark eyes that seemed to whirl | with the troubie that was in him. | | Miss Wych thought: | times when one must placate the devil. | that she was looking deep into the | bitterly, “but you do. give him the once-over and he's off. | Miss Wych envied that girl. But she called up her courage and tried to give stranger the once-over. The stranger was a lean young man with You see,” he sald, “it's like this, Miss Wych, I had to meet you some- how. But how? I did not know what to do. And so I did this. Miss Wych, dear, will you forgive me? “There are This must be one of those time: ; Then Miss Wych dlscovered a most | extraordipary thing. She discovered ranger's dark eyes. She flushed as red as a tennis court. “This is terrible,” she said bitterly, | Terrible! How dare you speak to me! Please go away at once.” [ can't,” sald the young stranger. would if I could. But I just can't. I'm sorr. ] Miss Wych thought: “He says he's| . the beast!" You are mad,” said Miss Wych in-| differently. The sun walked in fire and glory, but the world was dark, the world was dark, and bold bad men walked the streets for to be offensive to maids. The young stranger, for in- stance, did not go away. He said des- rately: pe“l( )”ou will give me just one look you wlill see that I don't mean to offend you.” “That may be 80,” sald Miss Wych “You only think I do,” protested the lean voung man. “That's all it is really.” Then Miss Wych discovered a most traordinary thing. She discovered hat she was walking slowly, slowly. Instantly she walked on quickly The lean young man sighed, “Oh, dear!” Miss Wych said breathlessly: “I| don’t even know your name! And how | yoy_have got to know mine I really | cant imagine. But you don't look | wicked. Please don't go on being | Please! Won't you go away “Pamela Wych,” the young stranger whispered, “Pamela Wych, Pamela Wych, Pamela Wych, how was I to meet you except by daring this? Fur-| ther, you are my fate, and what sort | of a man would I be if T were to leave | my fate in the very second of finding | it | Miss Wych thought: “This is get- | ting serious.” “That is all very well,” she said rea- sonably, “talking about fate and big things like that. But when you take it as just behavior you can see as well as I do that it is all wrong. Sir, there | are things one can’t do, and this is one of them, and o you must please go away at once.” : “That is the one thing I can't do." | sald the young stranger desperatel: fou see, although you won't show | me your face, T can see the tip of your | Miss Wych thought: “This can't go | on. How would it be if 1 called a| policeman?"! | “It is red,” said the profile of Miss | Wych, “for shame that man can so| insult his manhood | “I'm not insulting my manhood. 1| | | am certainly not playing. Miss V | know me, and that’s that | angrily, and he said |to grubby death am living up to it for the first time in my life. Miss Wych sald flercely: “Go away, go away, go away!” B “Dear,” said the young stranger, “listen to me. You must listen to me. 1 am not playing. * % HEY were in the park. How they had come to be in the park Miss Wych could not iiagine. Over Ken- sington Gardens the sun wus march- ing to eternity with a cohort of clouds and colors, said the lean young man, yeh, dear, this “It's piracy! temptuously. “That's right,” said the lean young man with the oyes of trouble. “You say you aren't playing.’ Miss Wych bitterly complained, “but you are upsetting me very much. A little chivalry, sir, would help you to see'| how terrified I'um.” “1 am terrified, too,” sald the young stranger, “of this happiness. It can't Dpossibly last, can it? It's too enor- mous.” Miss Wych ma “I really don't know why vou ask | me,” she panted spitefully, “whether | it can last or not. How should 1| know? And it's perfectly absurd, | what we are doing. It is perfectly | absurd. I don't know you, you don't | Any one | not a ‘piek-up’—— suid Miss Wych con- thought: “Iie's gone would think we were babie: “But that's just what 1 am! For, sald the young stranger, “I am ex actly one week old.” Miss Wych thought: ke ft!* Miss Wych said teresting!” “I am one week old,” the strang said, “because it was exactly one week ago that 1 first saw you. And you needn’t laugh!” “I'm not laughing,” said Miss Wych. They were sitting on two chalrs in the park. How they had come to be sitting on two chairs in the park Miss Wych could not imagine. The sun wan red in the face with trying to get to Australia through Kensington Gar- dens. > The young stranger said: “Now!" His eyes were deep and dark and shy, and Miss Wych thought: “He is one of those unhappy young men. There are a lot of them about. He is | probably used to burning people with | those eyes of his, but he won't burn | me."” The lean young man was saying “Miss Wych, may I tell you some-| thing most important? I love you." “That {8 what you say,” said Miss Wych, and was surprised at herself, for she had intended to say some. thing quite different. “Love,” said Miss Wych severely, “ls a shy word. It should not be thrown about just anyhow. That's quite apart from its being cheek."” The lean young man's eyes burnt have been in | torment for a week, and you talk to | me of cheek! “Well, it is cheek,” said Miss Wych sulkily. “And he talks “Really! How in- * % % % NO\\' because the young stranger's deep dark eyes were whirling with the trouble that was in him Miss | ‘Wych guddenly thought to close hers | tight, for she did not want to let herself be sorry for him. She thought: “If this is what they call Romance— | well, oh, dear, give me a nice bus ride in a hurricane! It would be much less uncomfortable.” “One day,” the volce was saying, | “I happened to go with a friend into that shop where you work, and I saw | you, and my life fell down like a tin soldier with a broken leg. That was a week ago, and since then I haven't | picked it up, I haven't known what to do. T have often heard that a man can go mad with love, but I did not know before that a man could go sane with love. All the people in the world who are not madly in love, Miss Wych dear, are in some degree insane, for it is insane not to have a proper perspective of life, and a proper perspective of life is to be quite certain that the world is well lost for the love of one person. It is Insane to work from grubby birth with never an at- tempt to chaln a star, with never a raid on enchantment, with never a | try to kiss a fairy or to live in a | dream. Dear, only dreams make life | real. All of life that is not touched and | troubled by our dreams is not real, does not exist. I could not have lived until now if T had not dreamed that one day I would meet you. I have worked, T have been what is called successful, but always 1 was under the spell of a miracle that was to appen, and when I saw you T knew that miracle had happened. I just wanted to tell vou that. 1 believe | in miracles and magic and my love for vou. That {s my testament. And if it is cheek to say I love you, then | ear peeping out from your hair, and it | cheek must be as beautiful a thing us {15 as red as a rose.” | chastity. And now 1 am going away, for vour eyes are closed, and that must be because my talk of love bores you. I have tried the impossi- ble, just to be certain that nothing is impossible until one has tried it. And I have learned another thing: 1 know now that when 1 am not looking at vou L shall be blind, when I am not listening to you I shall be deaf, und always I shall find no delight in the | world but in thoughts of vou. And now 1 will go away.” Miss Wych opened her eyes and | said: “Don’t go away.” T is an | | she said, but it was quite enough for | | | i “THIS IS TERRIBLE,” SHE SAID, BITTERLY. “TERRIBLE! HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME. PLEASE GO AWAY AT ONCE" jcould dart about the sky and never ! Miss Wych | dreaming.” the lean young man, who caught his breath and threw down his hat and | pinched himeelf. Now all the colors in the world and in the heavens had met over Ken- sington Gardens in a conference to discuss ways and means for putting the sun to sleep. and & few of them | came quickly und Iit Miss Wych's face 1 as she said: “There {s something very silly about me. Tt has landed me into a lot of trouble in my time. I alw belleve what people say. 1 believe in fairics. I believe in God. I believe that moonlight has o lovely smell. I believe in men.” - “‘Please believe in me!” said the lean | young man. “But why shouldn't Wych with wide eye. hat a funny | world this s, {sn't 1t? We aiways be- | lieve people straight away when they | say beastly things to us, but we don’ if ‘they say lovely. things——"" “We will change all young stranger whispered. ox ok % ALL this while the ~orld was stand- ing quite still as a speciul treat for the sylphs and epirits, so that they cried Mi: that!” the | lose their way back to the friends who had stayed at home. It was curious, Miss Wych thought, how she could feel the silence of the world. It was as though the wings of a darling bird brushed her cheek, scented her thoughts, sang in her heart. It was as though the world was still with rev- erence. Before her very eyes a fairy tripped_over @ blade of grass, and thought, “I must be “Talking of cheek,” sald the lean young man. “Yes?” said Miss Wych. iemall town In the north of England, | aia. | he wouldn’t mind being just i then. | man | his appointment. i sang Miss W | under a horse’s nose. “Look here," said the lean young man, and you could have blown his voice away with a breath, “if I have the cheek to ask you to MAITY e, 4 will you have the cheek to say He had a stick with an ivory top that was as yvellow and cracked with age as an old charwoman's face. She | looked at it a long time, and then she looked at him. “Why,” she cried, wet! I know,” sald the lean young man flercely, “And I don't care. Am I such a fool that I wouldn't be crying for the happiness of knowing you are in the world!" “Well,” safd Miss Wych, “I shall probably be erying myself at any mo- ment. But first of all T must tell you a st | “Won't ‘you marry me instead?” pleaded the youns strang “I will tell you a story,” said Miss | Wych gravely, and she began at once “I was born,” safd Miss Wych, “in a “your eyes are N A= WAL N AN which would have been the ugliest town in the world if there hadn't been uglier ones all around it. My mother died when I was quite young, and when I was 19 my father died; but I | did not mind being alone half s much | vou might think, because 1 was ambitlous. 8o, with the few pounds my father had left, I came to London to try my fortune on the stage. I had an aunt who was once an actress in Birmingham nd that was why 1 thought first of all of th stay And people safd I was pretty. “In that ugly town there was hoy who loved me. His name was Geor; and he was a clerk In an auctioneer’s office, but he wunted to be a farmer. When my father died George asked me to marry him, but I sald 1 couldn't do that and explained about my ambitions and how 1 would first of all like to have a try at being something in the world. You see, it {sn't only grown- ups who have dreams. Hesides, Georse was poor, and however would we live if we did get married? “He came to see me soon after I had settled in London. I told him I was studying acting at the Academy of | Dramatic Arts, and also I told him that I loved him. Of course, 1| wouldn't have told him that if he| hadn't asked me. But I thought I 1 was only 19 and a bit, and he was o strong and serious, and as fair as you are dark, and when he | was almost too serious to speak the | stopped. The tp of his nose would quiver in alquite calmiy lovely funny way {up the “That was the last time I saw | made George, but this evening 1 am to see | him again. You see, that was on the 1st of May five years ago, aund orge and I swore a great oath. | George said he was off to America | from underncath the ck. There to make his fortune, but that in five | was blood on his face. and he was so years to the day he would be waiting |"ygly that he looked like several sorts for me at the Savoy Hotel at & o'clock | of animals at once. He stared at the to glve me dinner and hear me say | chauffeur of the limousine. that I would marry him. We chose | -\otcherdothatfor?" he & place like the Savoy Hotel, because, | of course, George would have made | his fortune by then. George added | that he had no ambitions for himself, wmer, but that he would work for me. said that was a very good idea men should be ambitious and imperi ous, marching into history with clear heads and brave thoughts and clean | . AWM\ NN N A NN » two wheels of the taxi- aintively in the air. » old man selling s a connoisseur The limousgpe had horsge was alking on now. A lit icked newspapers of accidents ng policer ver of the taxicab crawled asked bit- me on now, lend a hand!" said the young policeman sternly A tall, fair, serfous-looking young man had alighted quickly from the limousine, and with him a young lady in a chinchilla coat My, of a faint American ac . HE ALSO SAID: * . . IF THAT GEORGE MAN ISN'T WORTHY OF YOUR LOYALTY, I SHALL KNOW. AND I WILL COME TO YOU AGAIN.” | ““There was said the taxi-driver bitterly. { | “She's pinned there!” cried the tall, sung man r ©d on our honeymoon!” | in the chin- | “Georg | sobbed the chilla coat the policeman sir,, just help m: the' young lady. It was the lean man who | s helping the policeman. He had | sllowed Miss Wych. As the tall, falr oung man and his young wife in| |the chinchilla coat pressed forward | through the crowd the lean young | | mun Jooked up at him, and his face | was very stern. The tall, fair young | man looked back with bewildered, | wretched eyes. | “Don't pered “Now, sir,” said the young police- | man, “I'll keep this up while | bring her throu vou like. | Now! i The lithe voung body was broken | young lady give us room!” said | rply. “Now then 1uft this wheel off w she’s dead! he whis- in” the chinchi | looking at you “Blessed if I know!" tall, fair young man “By gum, look at | the orange-and-t The lean young ‘Iund still. The crowd pressed round. “She's dead orl righ said the | orange-and-banana merchant. | last flames of sunset over Ad- v Arch lit the peering faces, and looked a# impersonal as gar- goyles. Some took off their hats. )b, she's dead!” sobbed the young {lady in the chinchilla coat ‘Such young lad, the taxi driver, bitter! blood from his face * * the aid g the | | stammered the g her pr . But you had failed her iled at everything in every country,” sald the young policeman. “And now I'll probably t the sack | from this job, teo, for crying on my beat.” * * 'HIZ lean young man and young policeman knelt beside the still,” broken body and tried to find | life where no life was. The orange- and-banana merchant took off his hat. The policeman’s helmet fell to the | ground and rolled a little way down towards the Strand. The tall young man_ held his silk hat hand. The lean young man looked p at him through a blinding mist of te nd stammered: “Aren’t you sorry, aren’'t you sorry”" “George,” sobbed the Ere, give 'Im back id the taxi driver bitterl hout a 'elmet don’t loc in' to giv me back sald the rchant. “Isn't is world, that's my voung lady | eyes. i ‘I said 1 would keep myself free for | him. I promised him that just as he | was going away, and you should have | seen how happy his eyes were and | how the tip of his nose quivered! And now I have to see him In a few min. ues' time, and what shall T say to| him? | “I was a failure on the stage. 1| am a failure even as a girl in u shop. | 1 am a failure In everything but my dreams. My childish ambitions ha; withered, and you would think 1 had | learnt such a lesson that I wouldn't | have any more, but now T have the | largest ambition in the world. 1| would like very much to be happy. | | BY ELSIE McCORMICK. T last that lowly and neglected being, the young father, coming into his own While That is why I have been wondering it is true that a large number all today and for how many davs ' of modern homes are still what 1 would say to George this eve- | equipped with fathers, they usually ning. You see, I wasn't really in love |rank in i ance somewhere be- with him even when I made my prom- | tween the hatrack and the electric ise, T knew that in my heart even | washing machine. My promise was just one of | Within the last month, however those important-looking flowers that |two notablé events have served to are wrung out of the soil of pity. And |bring this hitherto obscure and nes- my business in life from now onward, | lected specles into the public eve. The dear stranger, will be to keep that|first was the “rock-a-bye" contest re. hidden from my husband. But, of |cently staged for young fathers in course, T will get used to disenchant- | Washington. Bach entry was handed ment, just like every one else, and the | his baby in a state of acute voco time will come when I will wonder at | eruption. The contest ¢ ted) n myself for talking to you lke this, |finding out which one woul be | he and the time will come when I, like | first to reduce his offspring to a stat every one else, will die with the sick [of coma without the assistance heart of one who has never fulfilled | ether, wooden mallets or a series of herself. And now I must go; for it is | Pat and Mike stories. It took the close on 8§ o'clock.” winner just 9 minutes and 40 seconds “Of course,” sald the lean young |by the stop-watch to sing his child thoughtfully, he might, for | into unconsclousnes He then Lut‘; some reason we can't tell, not keep | the cheering grandstands, took nin And then—-" { bows and left the field with a limp i and then!” | fant on one arm, and the prize self- vch, but she added grave. | filling milk bottle, on the other. ly: “But oh, he will! George s a good | The second event of lmf Lo man and a determined man. Failure | fathers was the publication of a hoo or success, he will be there written for his_instruction * ¥ kX and guidance. is about ll‘fl' first time since King Lear that he has re- ceived any literary attention. A five mile shelf of books has been published |in recent years for the guidance of babies who want to learn the best methods for the proper handling of thelr parents. There have even bee volumes written for the spec of the mother—houks that have as a cover a’mob & faves emerging from a cloud, are full of archrefer: es to | tle st * “And then, and then, HE fires burnt low in the west. They walked toward the gates of the park. Miss Wych counted four stars in the sky. “Love," said the lean young man, | ry emotion but that of pa: rome with you, Pu » g0 togethe Could he do any- thing but release you?" “That wouldn't be fair, Wych. “That would®'t be Oh, ves, George would releass me. But life is not so easy as that. It's ali | ¢ ry nice and easy to talk and dream, | called to in sucl but aren’t there duties, t0o? I will g0 | bhook. o George and tell him I am ready to | expected to do was on a marry nim. I must do that. But may- | mometer, except maybe for a hurr be he won't want to marry And | midnight persual of a volume then——r~ | pounding the symptoms of croup. The clock at the park gates stood at | But now there is no further excuse 10 minutes to 8 o'clock, and on this for a father's not knowing what the ange enchanted evening, said Miss | coming of the little stranger is lkelv Wych, she would indulge in the ex-|to do to him travagance of a taxicab. The lean| Pairfax Downey has written with voung man stood by the door and said | wisdom and counsel to assist the more good-bye. and he said t that | helpless of the two parents into some George man isn't there, I | know. | understanding of whe Or If that George man isn't worthy of | triarchs who raised 40 children are al- your lovalty, I shall know. And I represented in stained glass win- will come to you again.” | dows as men with whitened hair and “If" eighed Mixs Wych. “If! If the | wrinkled faces. 3 world was 4 garden, and we were but-| Mr. Downey bagins with “‘Breaking terflies! If the world was a gardem; | the News to the New Father,” it be- and God was kind to lovers! Good- | ing generally agreed that father ought bye, zood-bye, good-bye to be told about it. Otherwise he * % ¥ * | might resent having a perfect HERE is an eminent school of |stranger of either sex monopolize his thought which insists that there bathroom. his shaving powder and is no such thing in this world as practically all the rings on the & chance. Therefore, we may take it |stove. that ever since the boginning of crea. | x tion there was appointed one sma 1G 5 s may bo wind to lurk nearby the National Gal- | A LTHOUGH announcements may lery in Trafalgar Square for the pur- made formally, with engraving, or wose of blowing an empty paper bag | informally over the telephone, the in- | e motion picture film has The horse belonged to a van, and it | fluence of th on P! said Miss at all. however. wttention w nt time, the rther’s 5 ex Fok | was probably bored with the van. Tt been swung unhesitatingly behind the gave a kick at the paper bag. It|tiny garment method. missed the paper bag. cried | “This method had been utilized with e e eros My 1St Eof 07| uch appalling frequency that it has Two men cried: “Ho! Woa! Oi!" | become a movie maxim of unfailing An old n:’nnssellmg newspapers hyl tl?ic | effectiveness that any wife to calm steps of St. Martin'sin-the-Fields|,,; phusband simply has to flash a e oAt Ll ] infant’s size, at him,” says Mr. The driver «f the van |shu'l~ An orange-and-banana | Downey. “Things have got to such a i merchant leapt for his life from the |state that in real life an entirely ex- horse’s hooves, and his oranges and | emplary husband is apt to be terribly bananas fell as manna upon Trafalgar I startled when his wife, during a slight Square, and many little children ran | tiff, takes a tea towel out of her sew- together and gave pralse. A large, |ing basket.” handsome lmousine was coming at| The husband having been informed a good pace up the slope from the of his approaching - blessing, Mr. Strand. It had to swerve to avold |Downey then proceeds to list both the running over the orange-and-banana |general preparations for fatherhood merchant. As it swerved it crashed (and the items necessary for the into the side of an anclent taxicab |father's layette. 9 that was bustling round the corner.| “First,” says Mr. Downeyv, “he The ancient taxicab overturned.|should consult a reliable physician. Thete was & scream of smashing|The consultation generally consists in is | be- | consjsted in) the biblical pa-| the prospective parent asking, ‘How | much?” ‘The doctor tells him what he | | charges and administers a restorative. { Then the her-to-be is advised not to | rest and to save all the me { by dleting."” | " After all the bids are in, the promis- | | sory father must next select an ap- { propriate hospital. There are many {items that he should consider, the { principal one being the general con- ldition of the hallways. Are they arafty, devold of benches, or posted against trespassing? Is anvbody who smokes on the premises liable to auto da fe or execution by the Chinese sy tem of a thousand cuts? Are the nurses fairly human in their behavior to suffering fathers, or have they starch In their hearts as well as in | their uniforms? If the latter be true, how hard is the front doorstep?” Having thus provided for his safety | | | 7| need | | | | “HES YOUR CHILD AS MUCH AS HE IS MIN IS MAMMA'S smfort during the crucial hours parenthood, the father must next go shopping for those dear, precious little things that he will find 0 necessary during the first flickering months of the tiny new life. He will need. according to Mr. Downey, six bottles, either labeled or unlabeled— labels not meaning much nowadays, anyway. . Other items include one tin bathtub to use in place of the rexular i be otherwise employed; of socks to replace worn hich nobody will have time to darn; one pen or corral to keep father from getting in the way of more im- portant members of the family, and one palr of delicate scales to weigh the new father’s bank account. After the baby has disappointed his parents by being a different sex from what they had anticipated, the Gov- ernment will step in to the proceed- ings by laughingly granting the father a new $400 exemption on his income tax. Governments, as a rule, are not ‘humorous institutions, and it is a real joy to find one that can doff its dig- nity to the extent of having a little fun with its citizens. In the con- fusion of their new status, some re- cent fathers have even been led to believe that the Government was go- ing to give them $40. It was thus quite a jolly surprise for them to learn that the increase affected their exemp- tion instead of their income, and also that $400 a year will hardly keep a modern baby properly antjseptic. Mr. Downey’s theory is that the §400 rate was set by some ancient gentle- man who was wedded only to his ledger. No doubt a half century of celibacy bhad left him under the im- pression that there is practically no I i | father was expected to demean him ! the very first. | for | ather Is Taken Behind Scenes In Modern Scientific Care of Baby babies, and that they never take up more work and less dignity than his croup, make interesting collections of | position ever accorded him before, the measles, or go in for cultivating ad- | manufacturers of perambulators show enoids. a notable ability to keep out of the Although nkruptcy courts, call special Mr. Downey doesn” attention to the con- trast, the fact remains that being | father is a much more difficult ol | now than it was even 30 vears ago. | In the earlier days of the Republic, no Cannon-Ball Trees. N tropical America, evem so far ;| morth as the Canal Zone, thers o% | flourishes a curious tree, correctly | enough it would appear, known as |the cannonball tree. In French | Guiana particularly it thrives in the greatest profusion. The cannon-ball tree flourishes best in low, moist soil near streams. The public park in Port of Spain, Tri dad, and the botanical gardens in Georgetown, British Guiana, contain fine specimens that never fail to at- The modern father, however, finds | 3Gt the attention ofithe s'x';"_“;‘;; b himself taken behind the scenes from s s 1o the. Zorest attaind He's vour ohild as | uickly and in the forest attains e Y 1o e minet hus bocome the | Reights between 60 and 90 feet, but slogan of the modern mother, and she | i the open it spreads out more and does not reach such heights. In has put it into practical effect so suc- | e i el e ot Gt b March this tree drops its leaves with “daily dozen” | - k great suddenness, but its new follaga is charges that fall to his share Cliries Giith Wil eqiinl fpecd in atrew He can mix a pasteurized milk cock- | qays. The pink, curiously formed tail in less time than he used to flowers, with their strong, penetrat with a Bronx, and he can test g perfume, are most zbundant, and water with his elbow as expertly | dur their bloom make the tree & Mr. Fahrenhelt could with a thermo- | beautiful sight meter. He becomes wonderfully adept | The fruit, however, is in bending from the E curfosity. It is a woody. globular ies for the rubber kewpie dolls, | pod from six to eight inches in dlam elluivid balls and homebound grocer s on long stems that ies that the b isists on finging 3 from the out of the car ink and ase of the large familiar with | branches fruit is gravish and he laughs hollowly on his | brown or ¥ in color, and about way downtown at those experimenting | the size of the cannon balls that de college students who thought they | orate so many squares throughout achieved somethine by stayving awake | the world. The people of French 70 nours at a stretch. Guiana, whose imagination seems to Another reason why fatherhood |be most active, noti the shape is @ more difficult job today than|of the fruit, its horsehide-like texture. it has ever heen in the past can be lund especially the nlike scar | found in the latest dietary and phy- |where the flower detaches ltgelf chological theories. In the old days|from the fruit, have nicknamed the |a baby graduated from milk to pork | tree the “base ball tree.” chops in less time than it would take |a cat to surround a can: As soon | as a child lost interest in a liquid diet, | {it was admitted without examination to the family dinner table. Formerly | {a baby was made over to suit the | { family menu; today, in this age of vitamines and measured calories, the menu is cut down to fit the | baby.” There isn't time to prepare two different _dinners, so the modern | father often finds himself after a hard day’s work feasting on rusks, orange juice,.scraped apple, coddled egg. and soft-bofled carrots. Thus the new status of fatherhood is sadly in need af any such counsel and comfort as Falrfax Downey may | bestow. There isn't even any dignity about the condition any more. No body seems to respect father nowa- days, elther during the first two years or the first 20. The day is past when he sat majestically at the head of the table, commanded silence with a flourish of the carving-knife and rolled out a sonorous grace over the bowed heads of his awed and silent children. But although father has| | self by learning the geosraphy safety-pin distribution or by acting as | caboose to a baby carriage. In the | presence of the head of the family, children were expected to maintain a | low visibility. He generally saw them nly when they were excruciatingly | startched and redolent of homemade soap. The father of the past had no knowledge whatever of a baby's gen- eral mechanics, and he was exceed- ingly uncurious as to what his wife did when she got up in the night. i | | | i the chief om th he THE FIRST TWO YEARS OF FATHERHOOD ARE THE HARDEST. THE OTHERS ARE HARDBR.