ever;
The mess we're in is much too deep to solve.
Me for a quiet life while you, as ever,
Continue to revolve.

* * *

"Our editorials," announces the Tampa Tribune, "are written by members
of the staff, and do not necessarily reflect the policy of the paper."
Similarly, the contents of this column are written by its conductor and
the straphangers, and have nothing whatever to do with its policy.

* * *

"What, indeed?" as Romeo replied to Juliet's query. And yet Ralph Dilley
and Irene Pickle were married in Decatur last week.

* * *

He was heard to observe, coming from the theater into the thick of the
wind and snow: "God help the rich; the poor can sleep with their windows
shut."

* * *

We have received a copy of the first issue of The Fabulist, printed in
Hingham Centre, Mass., and although we haven't had time to read it, we
like one of its ideas. "Contributions," it announces, "must be paid for
in advance at space rates."

* * *

The viewpoint of Dr. Jacques Duval (interestingly set forth by Mr.
Arliss) is that knowledge is more important than the life of individual
members of the so-called human race. But even Duval is a sentimentalist.
He believes that knowledge is important.

* * *

Among reasonable requests must be included that of the Hotel Fleming in
Petersburg, Ind.: "Gentlemen, please walk light at night. The guests are
paying 75 cents to sleep and do not want to be disturbed."

* * *

We have recorded the opinion that the Lum Tum Lumber Co. of Walla Walla,
Wash., would make a good college yell; but the Wishkah Boom Co. of
Wishkah, Wash., would do even better.

* * *

Some one was commiserating Impresario Dippel on his picturesque
assortment of griefs. "Yes," he said, "an impresario is a man who has
trouble. If he hasn't any he makes it."

* * *

What is the use of expositions of other men's philosophic systems unless
the exposition is made lucid and interesting? Philosophers are much like
certain musical critics: they write for one another, in a jargon which
only themselves can understand.

* * *

O shade of Claude Debussy, for whom the bells of hell or heaven go
tingalingaling (for wherever you are it is certain there are many
bells--great bells, little bells, bells in high air,