sophistication, and notices with less gusto than young Jim Hawkins—I mean Christopher Morley—the pristine bloom of things. In compensation, he notices other things that might have escaped my attention. What I recall most distinctly of our "nosing" about Washington and our calls on celebrities in New York is that President Harding wore a single ring but "no pin to his tie," and that Mr. Chesterton wore heavy woolen socks, "very much coming down about his ankles." So we confirm that brilliant aphorism: Life is a bundle of little things.
Young Heywood Broun is a Harvard man of about 30. He likes Stevenson, Hardy, H. G. Wells, Leonard Merrick and Mark Twain; and he holds that a girl should think twice before marrying any one who doesn't like them. He declares that some of his best friends have been Yale men, and, regretting the strained feelings between Yale and Harvard, he suggests that all might get happily together in crying, "To hell with Princeton!" He intends to meet Clayton Hamilton's standards for the dramatic critic, namely, to stand bareheaded in the nave of Amiens, to climb the Acropolis by moonlight, and to walk with whispers into the hushed presence of the Frari Madonna of Bellini before he attempts to review the performance of "Up in Mabel's Room." He likes the zoo and baseball, has a nice paper on "How to Be a Lion Tamer," and believes that "children who don't see Charlie Chaplin have, of course, been robbed of much of their childhood."
