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AMONG US MORTALS
PICTURES AND LEGENDS BY
|º]
w!"E: HILL
TEXT BY
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
@the Hiiuergite Prešá Cambridge
1917


85.2 2.
Hé525 a.”
CopyRIGHT, 1916 AND 1917, BY THE TRIBUNE Association
coPYRIGHT, 1917, BY Houghton MIFFLIN company
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Published Wovember 1917
“Believe me, dearie, there’s no pleasing the
trash in this hotel.” The queen of the switch-
board confides in the telegraph-operator.
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
T is possible, dear purchaser, that you are among
us mortals whose boast is that We Never Read
Prefaces. I never read them, either, especially when
they are written by somebody who did nºt write the
book. That is, I never read them until after I have
read the book; then I go back to find out whether the
preface-writer lied.
For when somebody other than the author writes
the preface, it is generally for commercial reasons.
V

PREFACE TO A PREFACE
It is when the author is comparatively obscure, and
the publishers fear that unless the book be endorsed
by an authority, - or, what is more important, by
what the book-buying public considers an authority,
— nobody will buy it. So Mr. Henry Ford, or Mr.
Andrew Carnegie, or Mr. Thomas A. Edison, or some-
body whose literary endorsement is equally weighty,
writes a preface. Not that I wish to minify the value
of such endorsements. For sales purposes I should
prefer Mr. Henry Ford’s printed approval of my
books (they are published, if you must know, by
Doubleday, Page & Co., Garden City, New York)
to the three-sheeted praise of Mr. William Crary
Brownell.
The other night I saw The Country Cousin, a play
written by two of my favorite authors, Mr. Booth
Tarkington and Mr. Julian Street. I thought it an
inferior play, and so did Mr. John Corbin. But
Colonel Roosevelt rose in his box and said it was “a
first-class American play”; and President Wilson said
the play was “delightful.” This morning’s papers
blazon these nitid endorsements; and more people
will go to see that play because these gentlemen said
what they did than went to see — well, for example,
Hindle Wakes, which had the strong endorsement of
a dozen practiced, experienced, and capable critics.
Yet I doubt whether either Colonel Roosevelt or
President Wilson could hold a dramatic critic's job
for two days. If the Colonel liked a play, he would
VI
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
probably rush down to the office and begin his cri-
tique with “Anybody who does not go to see “Ata-
boy!” which opened last night at the Buchanan
Theater — a theater named, by the way, for a presi-
dent one of his successors seems to have taken as his
model — anybody who fails to see that splendid play,
I repeat, is a dastardly, deliberate, and unqualified
traitor.” “May I not suggest,” Dramatic Critic Wil-
son might begin, “that ‘Ataboy!” as the very slang-
ily entitled harlequinade exhibited at the Buchanan
Theater is termed, is a very charming, very delight-
ful, and, if I may coin a phrase, a very good play? I
should like to hint, if I may be permitted the liberty
of implying it, that it is an agreeable play.”
If the publishers of this book had chosen Mr. Edi-
son or Colonel Roosevelt to write the preface to a
book of Hill’s pictures, those gentlemen would have
devoted the space to saying (a) how great they con-
sidered the pictures; (b) how great — therefore —
they were; and (c) that— therefore — it was the duty
of the public to consider them great. The public,
bless its much more intelligent heart than editors
think it has, is doing its duty by Hill, so I am spared
task (c); I have not the phraseology of art criticism,
so (b) is denied me; but (a) is within my province. I
think they’re great.
Perhaps there never was a newspaper feature that
achieved so much popularity so quickly. Certainly I
never knew of one. Hill's weekly page of drawings
V11
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
spread in public favor like — as somebody so cleverly
has phrased it — a prairie fire. In April, 1916, I was
editing the New York Tribune Magazine, an eight-
page Sunday section. My associate, who did all the
work and originated most of the ideas, was Mr.
Arthur H. Folwell, who had been, for fourteen years,
editor of Puck. When we were planning our first num-
ber of the magazine, Folwell said, “One man we have
to get is Bill Hill.” Hill had been drawing sketches
for Puck. So we asked Hill to come down to the
Tribune office. “How would you like to draw a page
a week for us?” we asked. “Fine,” said Hill, in that
verbose way he has. And that’s how it began. What-
ever credit attaches to being first to see the possi-
bilities in Hill’s drawings belongs to Folwell. All I
did was to assure the Tribune that even if we did
print a whole page of drawings every Sunday, nobody
would blow up the building.
* The first Sunday Hill’s page appeared nearly every-
body I met commented on it. The second Sunday
people were “discovering” him, which is the best
advertisement a book, a play, or a newspaper feature
can have. And in a month it was almost a disgrace,
in our gossipy village, not to have seen the Hill page
by Sunday noon. “Seen that iceman of Hill’s P”
somebody would say, about eleven o’clock. And it
would be a matter of pride to answer, “Yes, that was
good; but, my dear, I nearly died over that song and
dance team at the burlesque show!” And newspaper
viii
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
and magazine men I met would say, in a sort of ag-
grieved manner, “Say, where did you dig up that man
Hill?” I used to feel guilty. I felt as though I should
have gone first to the other newspapers and given
them an option on Hill; and then, if nobody else had
wanted him, it would have been fair for us to take
him.
Whenever a man writes, “Lack of time and space,
etc.,” he lies. As a rule, he is merely indolent, and
unwilling to spend his own time to save the reader's,
unwilling or unable to take the energy and time to
compress into small space his prolix and vague utter-
ances. I was tempted to say that I had neither time
nor space to explain Hill's popularity; but I have had
more than a year to think about it, and the prodigal
publishers, who, apparently, think that white paper
grows on trees, told me I might have all the space I
wanted.
Hill is popular, by which I mean universal, because
you think his pictures look like somebody you know,
like Eddie, or Marjorie, or Aunt Em. But they don’t;
they look like you. Or, if you prefer, like me. He is
popular because he draws the folks everybody knows.
He is popular for the same reason that a New York
audience applauds loudly and spontaneously a scene
showing Times Square or some equally familiar set-
ting. Why this is so I do not know. Perhaps it is
because it proves the Romance of the Commonplace,
because it shows that enchanted things may happen
IX
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
in scenes utterly familiar to you. It proves, as Hill’s
pictures markedly and clearly prove, that you, no
matter who you are, live in a vivid and interesting
world. And maybe it never had occurred to you be-
fore. . . . Arnold Bennett once told me that when he
was studying law, he happened to read George
Moore's A Mummer's Wife. The scene of the story
is the Five Towns. “Why,” thought Bennett, “can
it be that I live in this romantic, fascinating place P”
And he looked about him, for the first time with the
seeing eye, and found that it could be — that it was.
Hill gives us all the seeing eye. e
There have been made many comparisons of Hill
with O. Henry, but the parallel is inept. The closest
thing to Hill in literature — and it seems to me the
two are decidedly similar—is George Ade. Ade’s char-
acterizations, you say, satirize the man across from
you in the subway; they don’t: they satirize you.
Some of Ade's oldest characterizations, taken at ran-
dom, would do for titles to Hill’s pictures to-day.
“Once upon a Time,” wrote Ade in 1899, “there was
a Slim Girl with a Forehead which was Shiny and
Protuberant, like a Bartlett Pear. When asked to
put Something in an Autograph Album, she invari-
ably wrote the Following, in a tall, dislocated Back-
Hand:
‘Life is Real, Life is Earnest,
And the Grave is not its Goal.’”
x
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
And, in the same Fable: “He had been kicked in
the Head by a Mule when young and believed every-
thing he read in the Sunday Papers. His pay was
Twenty-Three a Month, which was high, if you knew
Ernest.” -
Hill has drawn the Slim Girl. He has drawn
Ernest. And “Luella . . . a Good Girl, who had
taken Prizes at the Mission Sunday School, but she
was Plain, Much. Her Features did not seem to
know the value of Team Work. Her Clothes fit her
Intermittently, as it were. She was what would be
called a Lumpy Dresser. But she had a good Heart.”
And “Gus . . . the kind of Fellow who would see a
Girl twice, and then, upon meeting her the Third
Time, would go up and straighten her Cravat for
her, and call her by her First Name. . . . Upon enter-
ing a Parlor Car at St. Paul he would select a Chair
next to the Most Promising One in Sight, and ask her
if she cared to have the Shade lowered. . . . At Mil-
waukee he would go out and buy a Bouquet for her,
and when they rode into Chicago they would be look-
ing out of the same Window, and he would be ar-
ranging for her Baggage with the Transfer Man. After
that they would be Old Friends.” And a favorite Hill
model is Ade’s “tall Blonde who knew that Colum-
bus discovered America and which kind of Massage
Cream to buy, and let it go at that.”
There is, to my notion, another similarity – beside
their intense Americanness — between Ade and Hill.
xi
PREFACE TO A PREFACE
They are considered, by the public that financially
supports them, a couple of amusing clowns, a pair of
merry-andrews, surface observers. I can imagine
their friends asking them when they are going to do
something serious, something “big.” If there is any-
thing in American literature “bigger” than Ade, I
should like to know who is writing it; and if anybody’s
pictures are more serious than Hill’s, I should like to
write a preface to his book, too.
Which brings me, after using your time and the
publishers’ space, to the
PREFACE
The pictures in this book were drawn by William
E. Hill, who was born in New York in 1887 and was
graduated from Amherst in 1909. He lives in New
York. - -
His profession is helping make the world safe from
hypocrisy.
FRANKLIN P. ADAMS
NEW YORK, October 13, 1917.
Tableaus at the Country Club – Late arrivals in the back
of the room enjoying the “Death of Little Nell” much
to the annoyance of little Nell's aunt.
CONTENTS
I. THE AMATEUR WAUDEVILLE
II. THE MOVIES
III. THE BURLESQUE SHOW
IV. AFTERNOON TEA HOUR
W. MoDERN ART
VI. THE SENIOR HOP
VII. SUMMER PEOPLE
VIII. WAR STUFF
IX. THE APARTMENT HOUSE
X. OPENING NIGHT
XI. THE FRATERNITY BANQUET
XII. CHRISTMAS

- AMONG US MORTALS
Two women who hate each other saying: “My
dear, I’ve thought of you so often,
and I’m coming to see you the
very first chance I get.”


I
THE AMATEUR, WAUDEVILLE
Reggie has consumed an hour in trying to
make himself resemble a collar ad.
Grayce dearest, —
We had the vaudeville last night and it was such a
success! Honestly, if I do say it myself, some of the
boys were better than lots I’ve seen on the profes-
sional stage. And anyhow, we took in $830 — or
maybe it was $380, I was always poor in arithmetic —



THE AMATEUR, WAUDEVILLE
and it’s for the Surgical Dressings Board, so you see it
was for a “good cause.”
There was a cartoonist there, a Mr. Hills, I be-
lieve, who made sketches of us. They were as clever
as they could be. I met him, too, but he went away
right after the “show.” He’s married, I suppose. All
the nicest men you meet are.
Reggie was awfully good, he looked so strong and
manly. And Bert’s imitation of Harry Lauder was
simply wonderful. You could have closed your eyes
and imagined that Mr. L. was on the stage. I was in
the chorus, and a “certain person” said I looked ter-
ribly cute. And he said it sincerely, too, if you know
what I mean.
After the “show” Bert and I went out on the piazza,
and he told me a lot of personal things. He’s really
deep, though everybody thinks he’s just funny. He
said “Tempus fidgets,” but I said, “Well, it’s really
a shame to go indoors, a night like this.” And he said
he’d try anything once. So we sat and talked, and,
my dear, we did n’t go in until 3 G.M.
I think we’ll have a good time here. It is n’t the
place so much as the people. You can always have a
good time with your own crowd, anyhow.
I’ll bet it’s hot in town. It’s warm here in the day-
time, but the nights are always cool and we’ve slept
under blankets every night.
Well, olive oil.
Fondly, Dulcinea.
****
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Very much flustered amateur cartoonist, who has used up
ten of the allotted twelve minutes and is still rubbing
out lines and putting them in again.


Toe dancer, who comes down hard, like a ton of brick,
causing the temporary stage to all but collapse.

The imitation of Harry Lauder by the man who
never has seen him, but knows how
his stuff ought to go.


º
The little stage set up at one end of the hotel ballroom, showing the members of the chorus,
who have rehearsed now and then for eight weeks, but in an armory, and never
at the same time.





II
THE MOVIES
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The lady who presides at the ticket window.
(After “Carcassonne”)
I’M growing old, I’ve forty years;
I’ve labored twenty of them hard.
I’ve fifty-fiftied smiles and tears,
Like many an elder, better bard.








THE MOVIES
I’ve lived in palace and in hut,
In tropic sun and winter snow.
I’ve roamed this well-known planet, but
I’ve never seen a movie show.
The Chaplin fall I’ve never seen;
I’ve never seen the Pickford curl;
I know not Fairbanks of the screen;
I’ve never glimmed the Bara girl,
I’d like to spill some stirring rhymes,
But writing what I do not know
Is not among my petty crimes . . .
I’ve never seen a movie show.
Joe took his mother and sister to see the Weekly featuring the film of the Master
Plumbers’ parade. Unfortunately the part with Joe in it had been cut.

---
--~~
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The man who knows all the inside dope about the players'
salaries, and the girl who has been told she resembles Theda
Bara and makes you guess who it is she looks like.

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Close-up of Nellie, the waif, who has just blown open a safe only to
discover documentary evidence that she has been robbing her own
father. In the front row sit Georgie and his nurse, supposed
to be taking an airing in the park.


III
THE BURLESQUE SHOW
La Belle Emelinita, the special
attraction of the olio.
THE DIARY OF OUR OWN SAMUEL PEPYS
- October 9 — Up, and to my office, where all the talk
is of the great warr, as, indeed, it is in all other places.
Nor can I find many to talk of base-ball, and of the

THE BURLESQUE SHOW
great series which beginneth to-morrow; yet do I
know those Zanies, the publick, and albeit all do say,
I take no interest in the game this year, yet fifty of
them, on the morrow morn, will genuflect to me for
billets to the game, which, Lord! I can not get so
easily as they might themselves. Comes W. Hill the
artist to see me, and we to an inn for dinner, of a clam-
chowder, and a chine of beef, and a salad of tomatoes,
and a blueberry pasty; all very fine, and it cost me near
£1, which I payed with a fair grace. Then we to the
playhouse to see The Gay Society Belles Burlesque
show, a noisy harlequinade. For I had heard a great
to-do about the improvement in these shows, how that
they are better than they were in the days when C.
Riegelman and I were lads and went to see a handsome
woman called Karina, at Sam T. Jack’s playhouse.
But the comick men to-night lacked, me-seemed, the
high and humourous vulgarity my boyhood laughed
at, and the women were without beauty or grace, and
all had gold teeth, and wore cotton stockings, which
would make Cleopatra herself to seem inalluring. Nor
did I like their comick songs so well as the sad minor
melodics of my youth. Lord! I would give £5 to see
“Old Age and Youth,” and to hear a team sing
“Is-a thatchu Madge?” I said to her.
She-a quickly toined away.
“Don’t toin away, Madge, I am still your friend.
To-night I’m going back to see
The old folks, and I thought
Perhaps a messidge you would like to send.”
The beef truster — nearly extinct.

THE BURLESQUE SHOW
Or
In a Pullman palace smoker sat a number of bright men;
You could tell that they were drummers; nothing seemed to
trouble them.
Or
And when a pretty waitress
Brought them a tray of food,
They spoke to her insultingly,
In manner rather rude.
But here was a team, with their inane rag, tag, and
bobtail, mumbling something about the ukulele, an
instrument said to be played by the Sandwich Is-
landers, God pity them! And the endless iteration of
jokes that had no flavour soever, no more than rice
pudding with vanilla sauce. But the house was
crowded with lackwits, and the feeble japeries made
all guffaw. And I told W. Hill of the days when I saw
a team called Caron and Herbert, and how droll they
were; and one called Mazuz and Mazette; and of the
comickalities of Billy Van and the pungent humour of
Charlie Case. And of the thrill that went over me
when Lady Sholto Douglas, wearing a diamond garter,
sang “The Daughter of Officer Porter”; and how I
laughed when Johnny Ray would say, “I’ve been up
sixteen flights of stairs and every door's a window.”
There is no comick stuff like that these days. Home,
and read The New Republic, and to-bed.
Lilly Romaine, soubrette, on the programme as “The Little
Bombshell of Joy,” living up to her reputation.




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High society on the burlesque circuit — showing
Mrs. Wan-Alstyne Nickelbocker dining with the
Duke of Flub Dub, on the lawn of her villa at New-
port. The Duke has just interpolated a shady joke.







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The wife of the man who owns the show as Columbia
in the big patriotic finale.



IV
AFTERNOON TEA HOUR
Balancing a cup of tea, a piece of cake,
and a very limp sandwich, pre-
paratory to shaking hands.
AFTERNOON TEA
“CAN'T we get out of the crush?”
“I never dreamed you’d be here.”
“How Dorothea can gush!”
“Have nºt seen you in a year.”
>








AFTERNOON TEA HOUR
“I never dreamed you’d be here.”
“Has n’t the weather been cool?”
“Have n’t seen you in a year!” §
“What! Why, she’s just out of school!”
“Has n’t the weather been cool?”
“My, what a polyglot bunch!”
“What! Why, she’s just out of school!”
(“I have n’t had any lunch!”) Q
“My, what a polyglot bunch!”
“Teas are a thing I detest . . .
I have n’t had any lunch.
Hurry. That man is a pest!”
“Teas are a thing I detest.”
“How Dorothea can gush!”
“Hurry. That man is a pest!
Can’t we get out of the crush?”
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V
MODERN ART
The opening day at an exhibition of
modern art.
Grayce dearest –
I am getting to be quite a “bohemian.” Went to
an art show yesterday and saw some of the new things
– “futurist,” they call them. They don’t mean any-
thing in my “young life.” It’s like in music — I al-





MODERN ART
ways say give me something with a tune in it, like
“The Rosary” or “Narcissus.” And something cheer-
ful. Like on the stage. “Gee,” there’s enough sad-
ness in real life without going to books or the theatre
for it. I like to be amused.
Well, about those pictures. Honestly, I don’t know
a thing about Art, but thank Goodness I know what
I like. And I am nothing if not frank, so I told Harry.
He really did n’t mind. I think if you say out what
you think, it’s best in the long run. Of Course, unless
it hurts somebody. I simply can’t bear to hurt any-
body. Harry is that way, too, and he is so kind to
dumb animals. Really, he is a dear.
The pictures were so silly! What I like are those
magazine covers by Harrison Fisher, is it? or Christy,
and Neysa McMein. I wonder how she pronounces it.
Iknow a boy who knows her and he says it’s McMane
— like that. He says she’s terribly fascinating! I wish
I could draw — the life must be so romantic and won-
derful. But, honestly, I can’t draw a straight line.
I don’t see how Briggs and Goldberg get all their
ideas. Think of having to do it every day!
I have n’t heard from you in ages and ages. This
is Wednesday, but it seems like Monday to me be-
cause yesterday was a holiday. -
“Over the river.”
Fondly,
Dulcy.
。
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Artist discovering that the only one of his
has been hung up-side-down.
pictures sold



VI
THE SENIOR HOP
The house-party chaperon, who calls everybody
“honey boy’ and is always kissing some
one. Not over popular with the girls.
PERHAPs, when the world shall have been made
safe for democracy, the Senior Hop and the Junior
Prom will be abolished. Or if they continue, in such


THE SENIOR HOP
a world, everybody in college will be invited. And
then, I fear, they will perish automatically, as will
many things in an ideally democratic universe. . . .
I wonder how we fighters for democracy will like it.
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Four girls having declined, Shorty was up against
it till his sister, at school, hit upon the happy
idea of sending her roommate, a “perfectly cork-
ing girl” whom Shorty had never seen.


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Two of the faculty w


The conscientious freshman, who always dances with all
the patronesses, finishes the evening's work with the Greek
professor's wife, who hasn’t danced since long before the
two-step went out of vogue.



Brother Simms, whose girl could n’t come at the
last moment. He has been drowning his sorrows
and now insists on going up to the house-party
and serenading the chaperons.

VII
SUMMER PEOPLE
Watching the engaged couple.
Grayce dear —
Here we are at Bromidlewild. It is perfectly lovely,
so quiet and restful. The railroad fare is $6.80, but
I always say the fare is the least of one's traveling







SUMMER PEOPLE
expenses. The train was an hour late. It seems that
every time I’m on a train it’s late, but when I’m a
minute late catching it, it’s right on the dot. Papa
says life is like that.
My room is rather small, but everything is spot-
lessly clean. Besides, I’m outdoors all day long, so
what does the room matter? This is my room, marked
X on the letter-head. The meals are n’t very good,
but I don’t mind. If the bread and butter are good,
I always say, you can stand anything. Besides, the
people who complain about the table are always the
ones who are n’t used to anything better at home.
There is a young man here from the West, from
Iowa or Minneapolis or somewhere. He is different
from the Eastern men I know—more open and frank,
like his own prairies, if you know what I mean. There
is another boy here who has just graduated from
Princeton. I told him he would find the world a good
deal harder than college, but he said it was a small
world after all, and college was pretty big. Wasn’t
that silly? College is fine for boys, I think. The friend-
ships they form there are often more valuable to them
in after life than their studies.
Helen came up here Saturday. She went to Coney
Island Friday night, she said. I like to go once a year,
and that’s enough. Helen is n’t much to look at, but
she’s one of the best-hearted girls I know. And she
has stacks of girl friends. I always say if a girl has n’t
got girlfriends, there must be something wrong. That
The boy who has all the latest steps and the girl who is
just crazy to learn them.


SUMMER PEOPLE
Princeton boy said the same thing was true about men
and man friends. I guess college brings out every-
thing a man has in him – it either makes him or
breaks him. He used to know Helen in Pittsburgh.
How small the world is! There’s another boy here
I met last summer at Kamp Kumfort. I can’t re-
member his name. I never forget a face, but I’m
awful at names. He’s kind of a Socialist, but I told
him I thought if all the money in the world were di-
vided equally it would n’t be long before the same
folks had most of it who had most of it before. He
has a Ford. It’s not very pretty, but it does get you
from place to place.
There’s dancing, Grayce, too. Heavenly floor and
a “jazz” band, as they call it. I don’t care two cents
for dancing unless there’s a good floor and good music.
Do you? Or don’t you?
Well, I only meant to write a line and I’ve written
pages 1
Well, don’t take any wooden nickels. Ta-ta.
Fondly, Dulcinea.
P.S. Write me. I hate to write letters, but I simply
love to get them.
D.
_-_-）------~--~~~~ ~~
Gladys goes wading.
-




Mr. Healy, the milkman, gets a whole season's sunburn
in one day.
!





g at a Ford joke.
Lady laughin



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The girl who thinks men will respect her so much more if
she does n’t smoke.




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AABIĄS QUIJL




VIII
WAR STUFF
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The man who was awfully fierce and warlike
before war was declared, but who is
abnormally reticent nowadays.




















WAR STUFF
HILL omitted an interesting portrait in “War
Stuff.” He should have drawn one of the German who
said that he enjoyed his travels in America, but that
his wife did get so tired of those upper berths.
The sentimental lady who once spent
four days in a Munich pension, knows
the German people thoroughly, and does
not believe a word about these atrocities.


Mrs. Roederbeck, who was leading up to a little kitchen
talk on War Economy, loses her nerve when Viola, the
cook, begins her usual line about the lavish table they
used to set at her last place.

1 service, but who
imself on account
1VerSay
ll for un
t do anyth
IS a,
The young man who
2
unfortunately can
ing h
of two weak ankles and a fallen arch.



Clara was learning to drive a motor-ambulance and was
getting along quite nicely (provided there was some one
around to crank the car) when she had a perfectly dandy
invitation to visit out in Seattle, and, so, of course, she
had to give up all the war preparations.




The box party at the opera-house whose gossip is inter-
rupted when the house stands to sing the national anthem.
None of them knows the words, although one man in the
back of the box is making his mouth move appropriately.



THE APARTMENT HOUSE
-_
ing-agent, who
ger rent
Ea
tells you that the apart-
ment usually rents for
but,
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twenty-two hundred
because he has taken such
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THE APARTMENT HOUSE
ALSO, THERE MIGHT BE PICTURES OF —
ALBERT, the West Indian hallboy, who gets $35
a month and tells you scornfully that “we have n’t
any apartments under $3100.”
HULDA, the sturdy vigueen, gently — oh, so gently
— beating rugs on the roof.
ELSIE, the switchboard operator, reading next
month’s “Yippy Yarns” while Central is assuring
somebody “Mornington 2493 does not answer.”
MRs. BEASLEY showing Clara, the newly engaged
handmaiden, her bedroom, and wondering whether
Clara will like it.
CLARA, the newly engaged handmaiden, getting
her first look at her bedroom, and deciding to herself
that she is going to hate the place. -
The prospective tenants, escorted by the janitor, want to
See everything—including the room in which an un-
prepared member of the family is trying to hide.


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A family is moving in on the first floor, and Sidney,
the elevator boy, who objects to being imposed upon,
retires with his car to the top of the house till all the
heavy pieces have been carried in.








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when she smells beefsteak
milk and a cracker,
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Bessie's one chance to get away from the family and
read her correspondence.





X
OPENING NIGHT
Box-office man telling the man
who wanted the seat on the end,
down in front, that he has a
splendid one in “M,” five seats
from the aisle.


OPENING NIGHT
AND THE COUPLE IN BACK OF YOU, WHO
SAY, IN PART:
“It’s too bad John Drew can’t get a first-class play.
He’s such a finished actor.”
“Oh, yes. She’s always good.”
“I laughed, but for the life of me I could n’t tell
you what I laughed at.”
“I always read his criticisms, even when I disagree
with him.” -
“Well, it always runs longer the first night. When
they begin to cut —”
“I like Willie Collier better. He’s so — you know
— natural.”
“She’s got no voice, I know, but she’s got per-
sonality — that’s what she’s got — personality.”
“That’s James Montgomery Flagg or Montague
Glass. I always get them mixed up.”
“That’s just what I think. It’s a good play, but
not a great play.”
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Uncle Harry feels just
able as he looks.
lothes.
The small-town even
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as uncomfort













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the good points of the show.
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Ushers applaud





great many notes.
journal takes a
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Chorus lady sees a couple of college fr
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behalf of myself and
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The star. “Wanta thank you
the company

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Actress who rehearsed for the part and didn't make good
watching the leading lady in her big emotional scene.


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“Well, I'm afraid it 's a hit.”


XI
THE FRATERNITY BANQUET
Somewhat nervous speaker about to be reminded
by something or other of the story of the Irish-
man who met the Frenchman coming down the
street.


THE FRATERNITY BANQUET
THE CONFRATERNITY BANQUET
HOW IT SOUNDS AT ABOUT 10:55
How can I bear to boola boo the shades of Upidee
That’s where my heart is weep no more my O say can
you see
How dear to heart grows weary she’s a bear is Delta U
Above Cayuga’s waters for the Yellow and the Blue.
A Spanish cava fare thee well and everything so fine
That’s where you get your old black Joe my darling
Clementine
The old folks would enjoy it Tipperary 'tis of thee
'Twas from Aunt Dinah’s quilting on the beach at
Waikiki.
The pope he good-night ladies Alpha Nu because
we’re here
Just break the news to mother with a good song ring-
ing clear
Just tell them that fair Harvard old Nassau is shining
bright
How can I bear to boola boo we roll along to-night.
º
*****
The coatroom girl giving the tall hats a rough deal.



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Brother Beckmesser has come a thousand miles to speak of
the excellence of his fraternity.











Brother Mink, chronic fraternity bug, arguing the ad-
visability of establishing a precedent with regard
to the reading of the minutes, etc.


The convention banquet, showing Brother Bump in the act of recalling what his old physics
profused to say years ago about idealism. In the left foreground Brother Dinger is tell-
ing about the little queen on the train coming down from college, and at the right a visiting
brother is suggesting a little trip to the bar.
-

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… ••••••••••••••••• -ae）.


“"“” ----
The old boys who feel as young at seventy as they did at
twenty and the undergraduate who hopes he will
never be such an old fool,





XII
CHRISTMAS
The saleslady's Christmas morning.
Grayce dearest—
Xmas comes but once a year. It does n’t seem a
year since last Xmas, does it? I suppose the older you
get the faster the time seems to go.
I have n’t time for a “lengthy epistle” but you will
take the will for the deed, I know. I am sending you
just a trifle. It is nºt the value of the gift, I always
say. It’s the spirit that goes with it. And I hope










CHRISTMAS
you’ll like this book as well as I do — “Among We
Mortals,” the funniest pictures! The reading matter
is silly, but what do we care, as Eva Tanguay says.
I have a million cards to write, so excuse me. You
never know how many friends you have till Christ-
IſlaS COIOleS.
Well, Merry Xmas,
From Your aff’t,
Dulcinea.
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ity case for Christmas,
ile her parents look through
the toy department.
Little girl who wants a van
waiting wh



in a card which reads
The laundry boy hands
“Christmas is here,
th lots of joy,
WI
So don't forget the laundry boy.”


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The family gathering. Cousin Amy and Cousin Maud
explaining why they have n’t exchanged calls in
a year. Neither is getting away with it.








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