riment has
been made on a small scale, and it has always failed; on a large scale
it would only fail more magnificently. People who are naturally kind of
heart, and of less than average selfishness, wish that the impossible
might be compassed, but, unless they are half-witted, or are paid
agitators, they recognize that the impossible is well named.
Self-interest is the core of human nature, and before that core could be
appreciably modified, if ever, the supply of heat from the sun would be
so reduced that the noblest enthusiasm would be chilled. The utmost
achievable in this sad world is an enlightened self-interest. This we
expect of the United States when the peace makers gather. Anything more
selfish would be a reproach to our professed principles. Anything less
selfish would be a reproach to our intelligence.

* * *

I SHOT AN ARROW INTO THE AIR, IT WENT RIGHT THROUGH
MISS BURROUGHS' HAIR.

[From the Dallas Bulletin.]

We quote Miss Burroughs: "I don't think B. L. T. is so good any more--it
takes an intelligent person to comprehend his meaning half the time."

* * *

The world is running short of carbonic acid, the British Association is
told by Prof. Petrie. "The decomposition of a few more inches of
silicates over the globe will exhaust the minute fraction of carbonic
acid that still remains, and life will then become impossible." But
cheer up. The Boston Herald assures us that "there is no immediate cause
of alarm." Nevertheless we are disturbed. We had figured on the sun
growing cold, but if we are to run out of carbonic acid before the sun
winds up its affairs, a little worry will not be amiss. However,
everybody will be crazy as a hatter before long, so what does it matter?
Ten years ago Forbes Winslow wrote, after studying the human race and
the lunacy statistics of a century: "I have no hesitation in stating
that the human race has degenerated and is still progressing in a
downward direction. We are gradually approaching, with the decadence of
youth, a near proximity to a nation of madmen."

* * *

AS JOYCE KILMER MIGHT HAVE SAID.

[Kit Morley in the New York Evening Post.]

"_The Chicago Tribune owns forests of pulp wood._"
--Full-page advt.

I think that I shall never see
Aught lovely as a pulpwood tree.

A tree that grows through sunny noons
To furnish sporting page cartoons.

A tree whose