Evening Star Newspaper, February 2, 1930, Page 101

THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, FEBRUARY 2, 1930. 19 1 “IN DEFENSE OF ASTIGMATISM”—B)/ P. G. Wodehouse This Is One of a Series of Humorous Stetches Contributed to The Star’s Sunday Magazineby the Leading Humorists—Other Writers™ for This Series Are Stephen Leacock, Sam Hellman, Donald Ogden Stewart, Ellis Parker Butler and Richard Connell. "V HIS is peculiarly an age in which novelists pride themselves on the breadth of their outlook and the cour- age with which they refuse to ignore the realities of life. And never before have authors had such scope in the matter of the selection of heroes. In the days of the old- fashioned novel, when the hero was automati- cally Lord Blank or Sir Ralph Asterisk, there were, of course, certain rules that had to be observed, but today—why, you can hardly hear yourself think for the uproar of earnest young novelists proclaiming how free and unfettered they are. And yet, with but one exception— and he lacked the nerve to do it in a long novel, and only tried it tentatively in a mag- azine story—no writer has had the pluck to make his hero wear glasses. Here, roughly, is the list of rules for novel- ists in this respect: (a) Spectacles: These may be worn by (1) good uncles, (2) clergymen, (3) good lawyers, (4) all elderly men who are kind to the heroine; by (5) bad uncles, (6) black- mailers, (7) money-lenders, (b) Pince-nez: These may be worn by good college professors, bank presidents and musicians. No bad man may wear pince-nez. (c) Monocle: This may be worn by (1) good dukes, (2) all Englishmen. No bad man may wear a monocle. (d) These beastly tortoise-shell-rimmed things: Never worn in fiction. It is time that a stop was put to this arbitrary state of affairs, INtheold days, as I say, this was all very well. The hero was a young lordling, sprung from a line of ancestors who had never done anything with their- eyes except wear a piercing glance before which lesser men quailed. But now novelists go into every class of society for their heroes, and surely to goodness, at least an occasional one of them must have been astigmatic. Kipps undoubtedly wore glasses; so did Bunker Bean; so did Mr. Polly, Clayhanger, Bibbs Sheridan, and a score of others. Then why not say so? Novelists are moving with the times in every other direction. Why not this? It is futile to advance the argument that glass:s are unromantic. They are not. I know, because I wear them myself, and I am a singularly romantic figure, whether in my rim- less, my gold-bordered, or the plain gent’s spec- tacles which I wear in the privacy of my study. It is usel:ss to say that they are becoming. You have only got to look at me to see that. They are the very swagger. They lend an air, a zip, so to speak, to the appearance. Besides, everybody wears glasses nowadays. That is the point I wish to make. For com- mercial reasons, if for no others, authors ought to think seriously of this matter of goggling their heroes, It is an admitted fact that the reader of a novel likes to put himself in the hero's place—to imagine, while reading, that he is the hero. What an audience the writer of the first romance to star a spectacled hero will have! All over the country thousands of short-sighted men will polish their glasses and plunge into his pages. The growing tense- ness of life is whittling down the section of the populace which has perfect sight to a mere handful. I seem to see that romance. In fact, I think I shall write it myself. *“‘Evadne,’ murmured * Clarence, removing his pince-nez and polishing them tenderly. . . .” *“‘See,’ cried Clarence, ‘how clearly every leaf of yonder tree is mir- rored in the still water of the lake. I can’t myself, unfortunately, for I have left my glasses on the plapo, but don't worry about me; go ahead and see’!” “Clarence adjusted his tortoise-shell-rimmed spectacles with a careless gesture, and faced the assassins with- out a tremor.” Hot stuff? Got the punch? I should say so. Do you imagine that there will be a single man in this country with a dollar-thirty-five in his pocket and a pair of pince-nez on his face who will not scream and kick like an angry child if you withhold my novel from him? And just pause for a moment to think of the serial and dramatic rights of the story. All editors wear glasses, 30 do all theatrical man- agers. My appeal will bé irresistible. All I shall have to do will be to see that the check is for the right figure and to supervise the placing of the electric-light sign— What an aeudience the writer of the first romance to star a spectacled hero will have! SPECTACLES OF FATE. By P. G. Wodehouse. over the doors of whichever theater I happen to select for the production of the play. The only drawback will be that I shall collect such & mess of money from the royalties that it won't be any fun gambling in stocks. I expect I shall feund a university. HAVE you ever considered the latent - bilities for dramatic situations in sight? You know how your glasses cloud when you come into a warm room out of cold? Well, imagine your hero in position. He has been walting outside murderers’ den, preparatory to dashing in saving the heroine. He dashes in. “Hands up, you scoundrels,” he cries. And then his Golf Makes "Em Goofy. Continued jrom Fourteenth Page or any place, only I think I'll go out and get some practice,” said the Old Man, and the lad came busting out through the work shop headed for the back lot where Bob had some old balls and sticks stored away to use during lunch hours and after work. : ‘The Old Man taps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Come on, you're going to shag a few balls for me. I've got an important game on,” he says. I knew what was coming now. The senior member of the Probst firm was going to hit balls which meant that I would be run bow- legged chasing his hooks and slices. But the idea that hatched right out in my fertile brain was working, “The idea of getting Mr. Swartz to play golf so he'd neglect his business was the boy’'s, you know, Dad.” Bob says as we get out into the open air, “Why, I thought it was yours” said Mr. Probst. “Well, I borrowed it from him. He said ‘golf makes 'em goofy,’ and I used the idea in business and it sure is working. Why, last week he wasn't in the office but an hour in the morning, and I think it's having its effect on the business, “Morris and Son and Irsfeld Brothers have been raising cain all week, saying the joint is on the blink and theyre going to change if something isn't done. The trouble is that Swartz has been out playing golf instead of getting over to the club and letting Morris and Irsfeld win at cards so he could keep their pickle business,” the boy was explaining. The Old Man nodded his head and the near- est thing to a smile that he ever tried located itself on his face. “Think we can get Morris and Son and Irsfeld Brothers?” he asked. “Now, if they don’'t like Swartz’' pickles——" “It's not his pickles,” the kid answered. “They’re all right. What's a pickle anyway? He packs 'em about like we do. It's the way he's treating 'em that's the matter. When you have a customer with a favorite sport, you've got to do it with him and let him win. He'll think you're great and keep buying from you.’ But if you don't * * *’ He shrugged his shoulders. The old man nodded again, as though the boy had told him something. I could see that he was beginning to think that he was a valu- able man to have around. I left them talking shop and beat it to the back fence. Everything seemed to be on the up and up, for the old man kept them straighter than usual and we only lost 15 balls during the hour that he puffed and worked his game. Yes, sir, I had hopes that he would make a golfer yet . . . if you give him time. But if it took all the time he needed, his factory would go almost as fast as the other one. Then what would Morris & Son and Irsfeld Brothers and all the rest do when they couldn't -get any pickles? It would be just too bad. FPinally the game was set for early the next Sunday morning, SUNDAY morning I was out at the caddy house bright and early. I ducked the first few calls, waiting for Probst and Swartz. If my idea was going to work out right I wanted to be in on the fireworks. Bob seemed to have confidence in me and he really thought the two old codgers would hit it off all right, and he hoped to see a combine come out of the game. . “And if they do and there is a combine, I'll see that you are made foreman and you can give up packing pickles and clubs for a living,® Bob had told me, so it seemed that out on the greens and fairways of the course there was to be staged a golf game which would setttle my destiny. I wanted to help all I could. The ecaddy master sent me out with a couple of million- aire dubs and I missed the match, During the afternoon I caught sight of the two old duffers on the course. Everything seemed to be going all right and as they came into the eighteenth green I was waiting below the pro shop to be ready and smile my best when the boss came up the hill toward the club house. Swartz was smiling as they left the green. It looked like they had gotten along all right, so I walked right up to Mr. Probst. Bob held his nose and gave me an eloquent gesture which he meant for a warning, but I thought he was referring to the old man’s game, so I breezed right up and chirped: “Well, Mr. Probst, how's the game?” “Game—game—game!” he howls. “So there you are!” And he makes a grab at me. I ducked under the fence. & “Get out of my sight. It's all your fault,” he wailed, grabbing for his niblick, so I slid around the corner of the pro shop and beat it, wondering what on earth had happened. I had an idea I'd gotten in wrong somewhere. I was sitting down in the corner of the caddy shed all dejected like and burnt up when the caddy master handed me a note. I opened it and there was the bad news. It read: “Better not show up at the factory in the morning. Swartz talked Dad into playing for rather heavy stakes and when the game was over—well, he won the factory. Dad blames you! BOB.” So I 'm back caddying full time now, but I never did like pickle packing anyway, and I still maintain that golf makes ’em goofy | Copyright, 1930. 45 Nations to Show Poultry. THE crowing and the cackling bid fair to be plentiful in London next Summer. Poultry from 45 nations will be entered in the various exhibits to be incorporated in the International Exposition of the World’s Poultry Congress, which is to be held in Crystal Palace at the British capital, The United States, along with 44 other coun- tries, has accepted the invitation of the British government to take part in the exposition. All the latest ideas and data on efficiency in poultry raising will be ready for all who wish to look and learn. At the close of the exposition, a tour of England, Scotland and Ireland s planned. get all misty, and there he is, temporarily blind, with a full size desperado backing away and measuring the distance in erder to hand him one with an ax, Or would you prefer something less sensa- tional, something more in the romantic line? Very well. Hero, on his way to the dowager duchess’ ball, slips on a banana-peel and smashes his only pair of spectacles. He dare not fail to attend the ball, for the dear dowager duchess would never forgive him; so he goes in and proposes to a girl he particularly dis- likes, because she is dressed in pink, and the heroine told him that she was going to wear pink. But the heroine’s pink dress was late in coming home from the modiste’s and she had to turn up in blue. The heroine comes in just as the other girl is accepting him, and there you have a nice, live peppy kick-off for your tale of passion and human interest. Or does your taste run in the direction eof those yearning tales of life-long separation loving hearts through a misunderstanding? can do you that line just as well. My hero wouid go out one morning without his glasses and pass the heroine, to whom he is shortly to be married, without a word. You can imagine her pique, her distress, the sudden flaming-up of her maidenly pride. In real life, no doubt, she would simply sprint after him and say, “Harold, you old chump, what’s the big idea of cutting a fellow like this?” But in this type of novel that sort of thing is never done. The heroine would send him a note, breaking off the engagement without explana- tion, and would go right off and marry some- body else. Not till many weary years had passed and she was a widow and he a grave, sad man, gray at the temples and with lines of pain about the eyes, would they come toe gether again and achieve the happy ending. BUT I have said enough to show that the time has come when novelists, if they do not wish to be left behind in the race, must adapt themselves to modern conditions. One does not wish to threaten, but, as I say, we astigmatics are in a large minority, and can, if we get together, make our presence felt, Roused by this article to a sense of the injus« tice of their treatment, the great army of glass< wearing citizens could very easily make novele ists see reason. A boycott of non.spectacled heroes would soon achieve the necessary re= form. Perhaps it will not be necessary to lel matters go as far as that. I hope not. But, if this warning should be neglected, if we have any more of these nevels about men with keen gray eyes or piercing brown eyes or snapping black eyes or cheerful blue eyes—any sort of eyes, in fact, lacking some muscular affection, we shall know what to do. (Copyright, 1930.) Wizardry of Winter. Continued from Eighteenth Page deposited directly from the invisible water vapor o here. In other words it s 2ACY I dew, and, like the latter, doors as well as in the Qpen, ;torrg' warehouse, "8 on the pipes of a cold- well as on tin roofs and vegetation out of doors. Some of the maost beaytiful examples are found on the surface ice of lakes, streams and glaciers. These look like marveious snowy blossoms and are called *ice flowers.” True sleet, as defined by American meterolo= gists, consists of raindrops frozen in the shape of little pellets or angular fragments of clear ice This is one of two things that the layman sometimes mistakes for hail, the other being the variety of snow or snowy ice in tiny hard known to science as “graupel.” True haflfi product of the thunderstorm and falls chiefly in Summer. In very cold weather the air is som®times filled with sparkling ice crystals, forming a fine haze that does not obscure the daylight, and that occasfonally produces at close range solar and lunar halos, such as are more commonly seen in the clouds. There are also denser mists and fogs of ice. The “frost smoke” that rises over the Norwegian fjords and over ice-free spots in polar seas, is generally composed of ice crystals. An ice fog of mountain valleys in the West- ern United States bears the local name of “pogonip.” Its minute needles are reputed to be deadly to the lungs, and there is a tale that a whole tribe of Indians once perished from its effects. Apparently no investigation of pogonip is recorded in medical literature, and its dangers are probably much exaggerated, but it is greatly dreaded by both Indians and whites. A few years ago a Polish meterorologist, Dr. A. B. Dobrowolski, published a book of nearly & thousand pages in his own language, the trans- lated title of which is “The Natural History of Ice.” It contains thousands of references to the vast literature on this subject. Timber in the South THE South is approaching a point where ft§ virgin stands of timber face exhaustion, and when that point has arrived, forest experu‘ predict that cut-over land will be revisited and denuded of what remains of timber that was not removed in the first cutting. The serious consequences of such a condition are empha-~ sized by the Department of Agriculture, which is endeavoring to have the waste lands planted with trees to meet a situation which is believed to be inevitable, To emphasize their warning, forestry experts point to the example of the Lake States, which were cut over so drastically as practically to wipe out the forests, with a decided economic loss to thriving industries and a great increage in land taxes.