pers. They seemed to me the apotheosis of the little, the
palladium of the uninteresting. It did not occur to me that anything
possessed of such tenacity of life as the country newspaper must have a
real meaning and perform a genuine function in our civilization. In this
roaring age of efficiency we do not long support any institution that
does not set its claws deep into our common life--and hang on.

I began to take the _Star_ as a sort of concession, arguing with myself
that it would at least give me the weekly price of eggs and potatoes;
and, besides, Harriet always wants to know regularly where the Ladies'
Literary Society is to hold its meetings.

You cannot imagine my surprise and interest then, when I came abruptly
upon that explosive, black-typed "Fudge" in the middle of the _Star_. I
have always had a fondness for the word. It is like a breath of fresh
air in a stuffy library, and any man who can say "Fudge" in a big, round
voice has something in him. He's got views and a personality, even
though the views may be crooked and the personality prickly.

With what joy I read that paragraph--and cut it from the paper, and have
it yet in my golden treasury. This is it:

FUDGE

A fellow named Wright, who lives out in Ohio, says he can
fly. Mr. Wright is wrong. If the Lord had intended human
beings to fly He would have grown wings on us. He made birds
for the air, and fish for the sea, and men to walk on two
legs. It is a common characteristic of flying-machine
inventors and Democrats that they are not satisfied with
the doings of the Lord, but must be turning the world
topsy-turvy. Mr. Wright of Ohio should peruse the historic
story of Darius Green and his flying machine. If memory
serves us right Darius bumped his head, and afterward lived
a sensible life. The _Star_ would commend the example of Mr.
Green to Mr. Wright--and the Democrats.

Harriet heard me laughing, and called from the other room:

"David, what _are_ you laughing at?"

"Why, a new judge in Israel"--and I read the paragraph aloud with the
keenest delight.

"But I thought Mr. Wright _could_ fly!" said my sister doubtfully.

"Well, he can," said I, "only this writer is a Republican."

She was silent for a moment, standing there in the doorway while I
watched with interest the gathering question.

"But I don't see why a Republican--if he _can_ fly----"

"Harriet," I began rather