Mince Pie Part 17

The right-hand upper waistcoat pocket is used for wall-paper samples.

Here I keep clippings of all the wallpapers at home, so that when buying shirts, ties, socks or books I can be sure to get something that will harmonize. My taste in these matters has sometimes been aspersed, so I am playing safe.

The right-hand lower waistcoat pocket is used for small change. This is a one-way pocket; exit only.

The inner pocket of my coat is used for railroad timetables, most of which have since been changed. Also a selected a.s.sortment of unanswered letters and slips of paper saying, "Call Mr. So-and-so before noon." The first thing to be done by my heirs after collecting the remains must be to communicate with the writers of those letters, to a.s.sure them that I was struck down in the fullness of my powers while on the way to the post office to mail an answer.

My right-hand coat pocket is for pipes.

Left-hand coat pocket for tobacco and matches.

The little tin cup strapped in my left armpit is for Swedish matches that failed to ignite. It is an invention of my own.

I once intended to allocate a pocket especially for greenbacks, but found it unnecessary.

LETTERS TO CYNTHIA

I. IN PRAISE OF b.o.o.bS

_Dear Sir--What is a b.o.o.b? Will you please discuss the subject a little? Perhaps I'm a b.o.o.b for asking--but I'd like to know_.

CYNTHIA.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

BE FRIENDLY WITH b.o.o.bS

The b.o.o.b, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's device for mitigating the quaintly blended infelicities of existence. Never be too bitter about the b.o.o.b. The b.o.o.b is you and me and the man in the elevator.

THE b.o.o.b IS HUMANITY'S HOPE

As long as the b.o.o.b ratio remains high, humanity is safe. The b.o.o.b is the last repository of the stalwart virtues. The b.o.o.b is faith, hope and charity. The b.o.o.b is the hope of conservatives, the terror of radicals and the meal check of cynics. If you are run over on Market Street and left groaning under the mailed fist of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and I.W.W. will be watching the shop windows. It will be the b.o.o.b who will come to your aid, even before the cop gets there.

1653 b.o.o.bS

If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in the middle of Chestnut Street, and illuminate it with signs and red lights and placards reading, _DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT_, 1653 b.o.o.bs would tumble into it during the course of the day. b.o.o.bs have faith. They are eager to plunge in where an angel wouldn't even show his periscope.

THE b.o.o.b RATIO

But that does not prove anything creditable to human nature. For though 1653 people would fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit Company will dig for us free of charge) 26,448 would cautiously and suspiciously and contemptuously avoid it. The b.o.o.b ratio is just about 1 to 16.

HE LOOKS FOR ANGELS

It does not pay to make fun of the b.o.o.b. There is no malice in him, no insolence, no pa.s.sion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If he sees some one on a street corner gazing open-mouthed at the sky, he will do likewise, and stand there for half hour with his apple of Adam expectantly vibrating. But is that a shameful trait? May not a b.o.o.b expect to see angels in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is he more disreputable than the knave who frisks his watch meanwhile? And suppose he does see an angel, or even only a blue acre of sky--is that not worth as much as the dial in his poke?

HE SEES THEM

It is the b.o.o.b who is always willing to look hopefully for angels who will see them ultimately. And the man who is only looking for the b.o.o.b's timepiece will do time of his own by and by.

HE BEARS NO MALICE

The b.o.o.b is convinced that the world is conducted on genteel and friendly principles. He feels in his heart that even the law of gravity will do him no harm. That is why he steps unabashed into our pit on Chestnut Street; and finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, he bears no ill will to Sir Isaac Newton. He simply knows that the law of gravity took him for some one else--a street-cleaning contractor, perhaps.

A DEFINITION

A small boy once defined a b.o.o.b as one who always treats other people better than he does himself.

HE IS UNSUSPICIOUS

The b.o.o.b is hopeful, cheery, more concerned over other people's troubles than his own. He goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under the silk hat, even when the silk hat is on the head of a Mayor or City Councilman. He will pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the whole world is loaded and aimed at him. He will keep on running for the 5:42 train, even though the timetable was changed the day before yesterday. He goes through the revolving doors the wrong way. He forgets that the banks close at noon on Sat.u.r.days. He asks for oysters on the first of June. He will wait for hours at the Chestnut Street door, even though his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon counter.

HIS WIFE

Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a b.o.o.b before marriage he will never become so after. Women are the natural antidotes of b.o.o.bs.

RECEPTIVE

The b.o.o.b is not quarrelsome. He is willing to believe that you know more about it than he does. He is always at home for ideas.

HE IS HAPPY

Of course, what bothers other people is that the b.o.o.b is so happy. He enjoys himself. He falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and has more fun out of the tumble than the sneering 26,448 who stand above untumbled. The happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 15 per cent investment that returns only engraved prospectuses. He stands on that street corner looking for an imaginary angel parachuting down, and enjoys himself more than the Mephistopheles who is laughing up his sleeve.

NATURE'S DARLING

Nature must love the b.o.o.b, because she is a good deal of a b.o.o.b herself.

How she has squandered herself upon mountain peaks that are useless except for the Alpenstock Trust; upon violets that can't be eaten; upon giraffes whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that the b.o.o.b is Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the rest?

A BRIEF MAXIM

Be sure you're a b.o.o.b, and then go ahead.

IN CONCLUSION

But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the b.o.o.b with the Poor Fish. The Poor Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the b.o.o.b gone wrong. The Poor Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an angel, would think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The Poor Fish is Why b.o.o.bs Leave Home.

II. SIMPLIFICATION

_Dear Sir--How can life be simplified? In the office where I work the pressure of affairs is very exacting. Often I do not have a moment to think over my own affairs before 4 p.m. There are a great many matters that puzzle me, and I am afraid that if I go on working so hard the sweetest hours of my youth may pa.s.s before I have given them proper consideration. It is very ira.s.sible. Can you help me?_

CYNTHIA.

SALUTATION TO CYNTHIA