them he knew immensely more than we did. We
built up a complete philosophy of indolence and good will, according to
Food and Sleep and Swimming their proper share of homage. We rose at 10
in the morning and began talking; we talked all day and until 3 o'clock
at night. Then we went to bed and regained strength and combativeness
for the coming day. Never was a week better spent. We committed no
crimes, planned no secret treaties, devised no annexations or
indemnities. We envied no one. We examined the entire world and found it
worth while. Meanwhile our wives, who were watching (perhaps with a
little quiet indignation) from the veranda, kept on asking us, "What on
earth do you talk about?"

Bless their hearts, men don't have to have anything to talk _about_.
They just talk.

And there is only one rule for being a good talker: learn how to listen.

THE UNNATURAL NATURALIST

It gives us a great deal of pleasure to announce, officially, that
spring has arrived.

Our statement is not based on any irrelevant data as to equinoxes or
bluebirds or bock-beer signs, but is derived from the deepest authority
we know anything about, our subconscious self. We remember that some
philosopher, perhaps it was Professor James, suggested that individuals
are simply peaks of self-consciousness rising out of the vast ocean of
collective human Mind in which we all swim, and are, at bottom, one.
Whenever we have to decide any important matter, such as when to get our
hair cut and whether to pay a bill or not, and whether to call for the
check or let the other fellow do so, we don't attempt to harass our
conscious volition with these decisions. We rely on our subconscious and
instinctive person, and for better or worse we have to trust to its
righteousness and good sense. We just find ourself doing something and
we carry on and hope it is for the best.

From this deep abyss of subconsciousness we learn that it is spring.
The mottled goosebone of the Allentown prophet is no more
meteorologically accurate than our subconscience. And this is how it
works.

Once a year, about the approach of the vernal equinox or the seedsman's
catalogue, we wake up at 6 o'clock in the morning. This is an immediate
warning and apprisement that something is adrift. Three hundred and
sixty-four days in the year we wake, placidly enough, at seven-ten, ten
minutes after the alarm clock has jangled. But on this particular day,
whether it be the end of F