Bizarre (version 2) — Bizarre, Part Two

[Illustration: _Le plus grand tournoyeur sud-patte.

_] New and better ideas of child education are steadily making their way.

Nearly every one now acknowledges that the school room should be primarily a place of entertainment, that the true vocation of the teacher is to amuse in an instructive manner, and that study is really a scientific form of play.

Also, it is quite generally admitted that methods which involve mental effort on the part of the child are not to be tolerated.

So much progress has already been made.

But now there has just appeared a book which bids fair to carry the educational advance as far ahead again.

This book, entitled "A Baseball Primer of French," substitutes for the conventional pedantry of conjugations, syntax, etc. , a vivid account in French of an imaginary world's series.

Any boy who studies it will understand it instinctively; for if the foreign text prove obscure, he has only to read the English translation underneath.

The author, Speed Stevens--who, it may be remembered, was captain of his college nine,--shows a profound knowledge of baseball.

Indeed, it is on account of his ability as athletic coach that he holds his position of instructor in French at Croton.

The following extract gives an inkling of the rare pedagogical value of the book: Dans le dixième point, avec deux hommes In the tenth period, with two men sur bases et un sorti, Harburg éventa.

Alors on bases and one out, Harburg fanned.

Then Bill le Rosseur ramassa sa chauve-souris et Bill the Walloper picked up his bat and marcha à grands pas à l'assiette.

Hank strode to the plate.

Hank Harrigan, vrai à ses lauriers de plus grand Harrigan, true to his laurels as the greatest vivant tournoyeur sud-patte, partit avec un living southpaw twirler, started off with a tirer-dedans qui faisait zip-zip, entaillant une zipping in-shoot, scoring a frappe.

Le suivant fut un bal.

Dugan, au strike.

The next a ball.

Dugan, on premier, descendit avec son bras et vola la first went down with his arm and stole deuxième base, mais Brown fut mis en dehors second base, but Brown was put out au troisième.

Alors la cruche mis en dessus at third.

Then the pitcher put over un bal saliveux: frappe deux.

Puis, vinrent a spit-ball: strike two.

Then came encore deux bals.

Le comte était maintenant two more balls.

The count was now trois à deux, et les éventails s'asseyaient sans haleine.

three to two, and the fans sat breathless.

Bill assomma une longue mouche qui tomba Bill knocked out a long fly which fell volaille.

Il suiva celle-ci avec une volaille foul.

He followed this with a pop poppeuse, qui l'aurait fini n'eut été un fly, that would have finished him, manchon stupide de la part de l'attrappeur.

but for a stupid muff by the catcher.

Harrigan devenait grincé, et Cathaway, Harrigan was becoming rattled, and Cathaway, voiturant de la ligne de côté, lui criait, "Bras coaching from the side-line, yelled at him, "Glass de verre!

Il monte!

Il monte!"

La arm!

He's going up!

He's going up!"

The cruche envoya une goutte facile; Bill débarqua pitcher sent an easy drop; Bill landed là-dessus carrément, le menant par-dessus la on it squarely, driving it over the tête de l'arrête-court, loin dans le champ short-stop's head, far into left gauche.

C'était un oiseau d'une frappe.

Dugan field.

It was a bird of a hit.

Dugan entailla, et puis Bill, gaiement circlant les scored, and then Bill, gaily circling the sacs, glissa sauf chez soi, pendant que les bags, slid safe home, as the blanchisseurs allaient sauvages.

bleachers went wild.

THE ART OF PACKING

_With a Disquisition on the Science of Rooting for What You Have Packed_ [Illustration: Decorative letter "A"] A traveler is a person who escorts baggage.

He may think he is taking a trip for business or pleasure, but, whether he be journeying from Brooklyn to Hoboken with one trunk, or touring Europe with a bevy of handbags, his real occupation consists in chaperoning impedimenta.

There is something almost touching about the way in which he looks after his little flock--seeing that they are properly tagged, counting them anxiously to be sure that none are missing, defending them from the cruelty of expressmen, pleading for them at the feet of customs inspectors.

He has care for the humblest satchel.

If it be lost he will set down three full suitcases and seek after it until he finds it.

Not that he is actually _fond_ of his luggage.

But he has packed it and brought it with him, and therefore he is under obligation to it; is responsible for its well-being.

He knows in his heart that many of the clothes he has brought will never be worn, and that most of the books he has stowed away--dry looking volumes which he long ago decided he ought to read but which somehow he has never got 'round to--will not be opened.

Nevertheless, he has these things with him, and it is his duty to cherish them and see them safely back home again.

As he unpacks his belongings at the first stop, he wonders what his state of mind could have been when he packed them.

Why had he deemed his shaving brush _de trop_?

And why, oh why, had he abandoned his faithful slippers?

Had he imagined that two left-hand rubbers constituted a pair?

Five hats and caps are all very nice, but why did he put in only four handkerchiefs?

And even an array of fifty-seven neckties affords poor consolation for the total absence of socks.

As for the bathing-suit, the morning tub would be the only place where he could use that, and even there it would hardly seem appropriate.

Anybody with the price of a ticket can travel from one city to another, but it takes a real genius to pack a trunk.

The art must be practiced in its purity; there must be no mixing of the pancake (or roll-'em-up) style with the flapjack (or spread-'em-out-flat) style.

Such eclecticism is pernicious.

Considered from another point of view, packing is a fascinating game.

You put all sorts of objects in a trunk, the baggage man churns them thoroughly, and then you take them out again and try to guess what they are.

You meet with a hundred different surprises.

For instance, you never would have dreamed that a derby hat could turn inside out, or that a single suit could acquire ninety-three separate and distinct creases, or that a book could swallow a mirror and have indigestion from it, or that a bottle of ink inside seven wrappings could break and assert itself over a pile of shirts and a month's supply of collars.

But the great paradox of packing is that a trunk is always full when you close it and always three-quarters empty when you open it.

The trunk that nothing but violent stamping will shut is the very trunk that, a few hours later, bounces your possessions about like beans in a rattle;

so that when you lift the lid again you find them huddled forlornly in a corner, exhausted and battered from their shuttle-istics.

Another peculiarity is that nothing that you want is where you think it is.

The garment that you clearly remember putting in the right-hand front corner of the top tray is sure to turn up at last in the opposite part of the bottom.

Indeed, sooner will the Sphinx give up her secret than the trunk give up the thing you are looking for.

To dig up _de profundis_ a shoehorn that you need is a more remarkable achievement than to unearth a new Pompeii.

Rooting is a science.

Suppose, for instance, you wish to locate a pair of scissors without disturbing the general order.

You begin by classifying the scissors in your mind, in order that you may calculate their position in the trunk.

You consider them with reference to the following scheme of arrangement, which you recite as if you were an elevator boy in a department store: 1. _Main Tray.

_ Shirts, collars, hats, handkerchiefs, _and_ toilet articles.

2. _Mezzanine Tray.

_ Dress clothes, neckwear, art goods, _and_ bric-a-brac.

3. _Basement.

_ Shoes, hardware, suits, underwear, books, medicines, _and_ sporting goods.

Concluding, after due deliberation, that the scissors are equally appropriate to all of these, you start in on the main tray, sliding your palms around the edge as though you were easing ice-cream out of a mold.

No scissors.

You delve deeper, using the back of your hand as a plow-share.

No scissors.

Refusing to be baffled, you leave no garment unturned.

No scissors.

Growing a trifle impatient, you take out the main tray and tackle the mezzanine.

This will be a simple matter, because it is so shallow that you have only to feel around the edges.

No scissors.

Perhaps they got shaken into the middle.

You burrow there, making considerable work for the clothes-presser.

No scissors.

Now you are genuinely angry.

You toss the mezzanine upon the arms of a chair.

It is a rocking-chair, and it slides the tray gently forward and deposits it face downward on the floor.

Pretending to ignore this, you plunge both arms into the basement so violently that the lid unclicks and gives you a cowardly blow on the back of the head.

You rise up and vow that this your chattel shall flout you no longer.

Seizing it fiercely, you turn it upside down--you dump its contents about the room.

No scissors!

Then there steals into your mind a vision of the above-mentioned cutlery lying on a chiffonier in a room hundreds of miles away--and the realization that they are probably lying there still.

AGRICULTURE INDOORS

[Illustration] The usual package of seeds has not arrived.

Is the Hon. ----, my Representative in Congress, neglecting me?

The uncertainty appals.

Year after year this eminent legislator has favored me with floral tributes in kernel form, so that I have come to think of them as my inalienable rights as a constituent.

True, as is the case with the thousands of other voters in this urban district which he represents, I have no facilities for horticulture.

Living in a New York apartment seven stories up and unequipped with arable soil (the nondescript substance which deposits on my window sills from outshaken mops above would scarcely qualify as loam), I have been at a loss as to what disposition to make of said seeds.

"My dear friend," writes the benevolent legislator, "I am inclosing a list issued by the Department of Agriculture showing bulletins available for free distribution, which contain very valuable information for all classes of readers."

And he invites me to choose any six, by number, that he may promptly send them to me.

Only six!

To select that limited allotment from so alluring a galaxy is difficult, not to say bewildering.

No. 73 catches my eye--"Fly Traps and Their Operation."

I simply must have that one.

It seems to promise an insight into the mysteries of oratory.

Perhaps it may enable me the better to appreciate my M. C.

Nor can I hope to live a rounded life if I fail to assimilate No. 940, "Common White Grubs," and No. 920, "Milk Goats," and No. 788, "The Windbreak as a Farm Asset."

That makes four already; to which I must certainly add the kindly No. 1105, "Care of Mature Fowls," and the arrestingly realistic No. 1085, "Hog Lice and Hog Mange."

Thus my six choices are used up, and I am but at the threshold of this new world of knowledge that lies tantalizingly before me.

What of No. 685, celebrating that splendidly uncompromising American growth, "The Native Persimmon," and the intriguingly cryptic Nos.

515 and 1143, revealing the secrets of "Vetches" and "Lespedeza as a Forage Crop"?

Surely this coveted information should not be withheld from me.

Why should I be deprived of the privilege of reading aloud to my family No. 762, "False Cinch Bug--Measures for Control," and No. 1127, "Peanut Growing for Profit," and No. 948, "The Rag-Doll Seed Tester"?

If such romances were available for every one there would be less senseless gadding about on the part of our young folks.

Let the flapper fill her mind, not her flask, with No. 767, "Goose Raising," or No. 757, "Commercial Varieties of Alfalfa."

And let her heed the warning against short skirts in No. 1135, "The Beef Calf."

It has been said that there is in America insufficient appreciation of architecture.

Ah, true, my friends.

Let the multitude con No. 438, "Hog Houses," and, as examples of chaste suppression of meaningless ornamentation, Nos.

966 and 682--"A Simple Hog-Breeding Crate" and "Simple Trap Nest for Poultry."

Included in this invaluable list are to be found not only the frankly practical but also the vividly dramatic.

Offsetting such everyday but significant matters as No. 1189, "The Handling of Spinach for Shipment";

No. 1153, "Cowpea Utilization"; No. 1161, "Dodder," and No. 978, "Barnyard Manure in Eastern Pennsylvania," there are offered imagination stirring themes like No. 835, "How to Detect Outbreaks of Insects"; No. 874, "Swine Management," and No. 1003 (one that should be especially prized by the impecunious), "How to Control Billbugs."

Until I read this list I had no idea that spiritualism had entomological phases which Conan Doyle seems to have overlooked.

Again and again there is mention of strange creatures and their psychic "controls": No. 1074, "The Bean Ladybird and Its Control"; No. 1060, "Harlequin Cabbage Bug and Its Control"; No. 897, "Fleas and Their Control," and No. 975 (presumably throwing light upon the immigration problem), "The Control of European Foulbrood."

More comprehensible to me are the following.

Anent home life and pets: No. 1014, "Wintering Bees in Cellars"; No. 1104, "Book Lice," and No. 846, "Tobacco Beetle and How to Prevent Loss."

(Does one keep the beetle on a leash, I wonder?

) Bolshevism: No. 1054, "The Loco Weed."

Chambers of Commerce, Get-Together Clubs, etc. : No. 993, "Cooperative Bull Associations."

Prohibitionists: No. 1220, "Insect and Fungus Enemies of the Grape."

All in all, there are at least thirty bulletins which every citizen of this metropolis needs to make him an intelligent voter.

And my M. C.

allows me but six!

"My allotment being limited," he explains.

But why should his allotment be thus limited?

Since he grants that the bulletins are indispensable to my enlightenment, it is not for him to apologize, but to see that I am fully supplied with them.

To protest that the Department of Agriculture cramps his largess is no excuse, for does not almighty Congress rule the Department of Agriculture and run it in the interests of the People and not for the sake of a lot of rubes?

No; let him spur the department to greater efforts, press the presses to greater output.

When my little son looks up into my eyes and asks, "Daddy, tell me about the flat-headed apple tree borer," am I to answer him: "Sorry, my boy, but Bulletin No. 1065 was denied me by a niggardly government?"

My M. C.

will not have done his complete duty till every home in this city boasts a five-foot shelf of bulletins and the head of every family can gather his dear ones about the radiator in the evening with a cheery: "Ah!

now we take up No. 956, 'The Spotted Garden Slug.'

Every one who pays strict attention gets a hollyhock seed."

Only then will the true function of government be realized.

* * * * * Meanwhile....

The seeds have come!

SNOWY BOSOMS

At the risk of seeming churlish, a veritable outcast from society, I confess that I have no great fondness for snowy bosoms.

I realize that they are generally considered beautiful, and that their virgin whiteness is the embodiment of unyielding purity; and yet I cannot but prefer the more comfortable _negligée_ shirt.

If only they could be soft-boiled.

I would so appreciate a three-minute one.

(I know it would sit better on the stomach.

) The white could be firm enough to hold together, and yet not so much so as to require a knife to break into it.

Gala chemises that approached this ideal did appear several seasons ago.

Their frontispieces were encrusted with a swarm of very young tucks, which rendered them quite docile.

But these gentle, easy-going garments, with their pliant pleats and amenable button holes, could not survive.

They were, alas, too soft.

They lacked the stoicism of starch.

They could not hold their own against the sterner-fibred armored breastworks.

And so we men of today when we go to perform our evening devotions to the ladies have upon us the same old white plague.

I might find some consolation in the fact that my aversion to it is shared by all laundries.

Yes, the laundry is my avenger.

With Machiavellian guile it invites shirts, seeks them, welcomes them, professes a yearning passion for them; and then subtly destroys them in secret.

Commit an insufferable new stud-smasher to a laundry and note the fate that overtakes it.

See what happens to its bold front.

A week later it will be brought back to you with its spirit quite broken, and its tail between its sleeves, and held in subjection by a squad of menacing pins.

The moment you rend the veil of wax paper with which they have discreetly concealed its destitution, you are amazed to find how it has aged in one short week.

It has become like the sear and yellow leaf.

There are crow's feet at the corners of its buttonholes.

It is so weak that they have had to send it on a paste-board stretcher to keep it from going all to pieces.

Your erstwhile festive buckler now looks more like the bosom of Abraham.