ight yellow piles in the
warehouse. Think of the warm sun and the wholesome sweetness of broad
acres that have grown into the pith of the cob. Think of the bright-eyed
Missouri maidens who have turned and scooped and varnished and packed
them. Think of the airy streets and wide pavements of Boonville, and the
corner drug stores with their shining soda fountains and grape-juice
bottles. Think of sitting out on that bluff on a warm evening, watching
the broad shimmer of the river slipping down from the sunset, and
smoking a serene pipe while the local flappers walk in the coolness
wearing crisp, swaying gingham dresses. That's the kind of town we like
to think about.

MAKING MARATHON SAFE FOR THE URCHIN

The Urchin and I have been strolling about Marathon on Sunday mornings
for more than a year, but not until the gasolineless Sabbaths supervened
were we really able to examine the village and see what it is like.
Previously we had been kept busy either dodging motors or admiring them
as they sped by. Their rich dazzle of burnished enamel, the purring hum
of their great tires, evokes applause from the Urchin. He is learning,
as he watches those flashing chariots, that life truly is almost as
vivid as the advertisements in the _Ladies' Home Journal_, where the
shimmer of earthly pageant first was presented to him.

Marathon is a village so genteel and comely that the Urchin and I would
like to have some pictures of it for future generations, particularly as
we see it on an autumn morning when, as I say, the motors are kenneled
and the landscape has ceased to vibrate. In the douce benignance of
equinoctial sunshine we gaze about us with eyes of inventory. Where my
observation errs by too much sentiment the Urchin checks me by his
cooler power of ratiocination.

Marathon is a suburban Xanadu gently caressed by the train service of
the Cinder and Bloodshot. It may be recognized as an aristocratic and
patrician stronghold by the fact that while luxuries are readily
obtainable (for instance, banana splits, or the latest novel by Enoch A.
Bennett), necessaries are had only by prayer and advowson. The drug
store will deliver ice cream to your very refrigerator, but it is
impossible to get your garbage collected. The cook goes off for her
Thursday evening in a taxi, but you will have to mend the roof, stanch
the plumbing and curry the furnace with your own hands. There are ten
trains to take you to town of an evening, bu