whom he called Grey. Which was another
cropper—or whopper. This strange and illiterate outbreak was
printed by the editor with the justly scornful title, "Mr. Chesterton
'Explains'?" Any man reading the paper at breakfast saw at once the
meaning of the sarcastic quotation marks. They meant, of course, "Here
is a man who doesn't know Gray from Shakespeare; he tries to patch it up
and he can't even spell Gray. And that is what he calls an Explanation."
That is the perfectly natural inference of the reader from the letter,
the mistake, and the headline—as seen from the outside. The
falsehood was serious; the editorial rebuke was serious. The stern
editor and the sombre, baffled contributor confront each other as the
curtain falls.

And now I will tell you exactly what really happened. It is honestly
rather amusing; it is a story of what journals and journalists really
are. A monstrously lazy man lives in South Bucks partly by writing a
column in the Saturday Daily News. At the time he usually writes it
(which is always at the last moment) his house is unexpectedly invaded
by infants of all shapes and sizes. His Secretary is called away; and
he has to cope with the invading pigmies. Playing with children is a
glorious thing; but the journalist in question has never understood
why it was considered a soothing or idyllic one. It reminds him, not
of watering little budding flowers, but of wrestling for hours with
gigantic angels and devils. Moral problems of the most monstrous
complexity besiege him incessantly. He has to decide before the awful
eyes of innocence, whether, when a sister has knocked down a brother's
bricks, in revenge for the brother having taken two sweets out of his
turn, it is endurable that the brother should retaliate by scribbling on
the sister's picture book, and whether such conduct does not justify the
sister in blowing out the brother's unlawfully lighted match.

Just as he is solving this problem upon principles of the highest
morality, it occurs to him suddenly that he has not written his Saturday
article; and that there is only about an hour to do it in. He wildly
calls to somebody (probably the gardener) to telephone to somewhere for
a messenger; he barricades himself in another room and tears his hair,
wondering what on earth he shall write about. A drumming of fists on
the door outside and a cheerful bellowing encourage and clarify his
thoughts; and he is able to observe some newspa