Reflections of a 
 T. B. M. 
 
 By • Himself • 
 
Class 1^5^53.7 
 
 CQEXRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
The Reflections of a 
 T.B.M. 
 
The Reflections of a 
 
 T. B. M. 
 
 DECORATIONS BY GLUYAS WILLIAMS 
 
 Boston and New York 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 
^ ^ 
 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 . ALL SIGHTS RESERVED 
 
 4^ o 
 
 CAMBRIDGE • MASSACHUSETTS 
 PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 
 
 ^n 26 1922 
 0)CI.A661430 
 
i:::^ 
 
 TO THE LADIES 
 
 ESPECIALLY TO THOSE 
 
 WHO TAKE THESE PAPERS 
 
 WITH A 
 
 GRAIN OF SALT 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The T. B. M. has been pictured for years by 
 Life as a bald-headed individual who fre- 
 quents the front row of a musical revue. 
 I have sometimes felt that Life assumed 
 that the poorer the show the more the 
 T. B. M. enjoyed it. 
 
 As T. B. M. merely stands for Tired 
 Business Man, I have ventured in these 
 pages to stand for him in a new light. These 
 Reflections upon the fair sex must not be 
 considered as reflections at all. Heaven for- 
 bid that I should pose as one superior to 
 those members of the sex which now marches 
 onward invincible alike to law and order as 
 — we knew them once. No, these papers 
 are merely thumbnail sketches of feminine 
 traits written at random after the day (and 
 the man) is done. 
 
 T. B. M. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 A Wife's Best Friend 
 
 1 
 
 The Modern Mother 
 
 11 
 
 The Lady Next Door 
 
 23 
 
 The Trained Nurse 
 
 35 
 
 The Show Girl 
 
 49 
 
 A Mother-in-Law 
 
 57 
 
 The New Stenographer 
 
 73 
 
 A Near-Flapper 
 
 87 
 
 The Chief Operator 
 
 99 
 
 The Athletic Girl 
 
 113 
 
 The Authoress 
 
 121 
 
 The New Voter 
 
 133 
 
 The Debutante 
 
 141 
 
 A Neighbor Once Removed 
 
 153 
 
 Sister 
 
 165 
 
 TOPST-TURVT 
 
 175 
 
A WIFE'S BEST FRIEND 
 
The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 • 
 
 A WIFE'S BEST FRIEND 
 
 When a man marries ! Ah, that was a time 
 when the T. B. M. did not exist. He was still 
 Young, Hopeful, a Gay Lochinvar, following 
 Thackeray's advice to his young nephew, 
 and he looked upon life pretty much as a 
 young man might look upon a new suit of 
 clothes just home from the tailor's, as some- 
 thing made exclusively for him and exclu- 
 sively his own. 
 
 And those first joyous years of exclusive 
 dual contentment carried out admirably the 
 idea. The old world revolved not altogether 
 upon its axis, but about them, bringing 
 friends and families together in a kaleido- 
 scopic fashion from which pleasant, changing 
 groupings formed patterns on their hearth- 
 
4 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 rug. Yes, there is more than a grain of truth 
 in the famihar phrase of "marrying into a 
 family," for first and last the family clutter 
 up the marital relations oftener than not 
 with the best intentions and with the most 
 deplorable results; and, conversely, with 
 hostile intentions and with ultimate benefi- 
 cial results; for the world is as full of contra- 
 dictions as it is of human beings. But there 
 is one particular species, which stands forth 
 as sui generis — a wife's best friend. You 
 know her. She starts by calling you by your 
 Christian name upon introduction. She de- 
 clares that you are going to be the best of 
 friends because Sue is the dearest thing in 
 the world to her and of course to me. She 
 goes on for some time, working out varia- 
 tions of this theme until you become a trifle 
 jumpy. Then she starts to dissect Sue's 
 character, at first pointing out her many 
 perfections, but working up to a few less 
 
A Wife's Best Friend 5 
 
 complimentary traits. Certain of these I 
 have already recognized, but naturally I fail 
 to agree, and show perhaps a little too 
 plainly that we have gone far enough. This 
 has a chilling effect upon the conversation, 
 and we wander off into a discussion of the 
 relative advantages of a flat in town over a 
 small house in the country and the attendant 
 advantages and expenses of each. In fact, 
 we go into such detail that I begin to wonder 
 whom I am going to marry after all. Sue or 
 her best friend, or whether this best friend is 
 not a general manager in disguise come to 
 run our affairs for the love of Sue. 
 
 After this first meeting I find myself 
 dejected, and firm upon one thing. Sue and 
 her best friend were classmates at college. 
 I had not previously known many college 
 girls, or, at least, I had not known whether 
 or no my friends of the opposite sex were col- 
 lege-bred or not, for as I saw them singly. 
 
6 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 the college stamp was not apparent, but 
 putting them together produced the neces- 
 sary chemical alloy which brought clearly in 
 evidence the dear old Alma Mater spirit to 
 such a degree that, narrow-minded male 
 that I was, I immediately came to the con- 
 clusion that, while college is all very well for 
 boys, it was not at all necessary or becoming 
 to girls. That started it, and I have suffered 
 ever since; in fact, the symptoms of the 
 T. B. M. might be said to have first ap- 
 peared at this time. 
 
 The best friend reverted to formalities 
 and I became "Mr. X." from then on and 
 for some years to come. 
 
 Sue was never disloyal to me by word or 
 gesture, but I knew she condemned my at- 
 titude toward her college days. 
 
 We often sat reading at night when the 
 telephone would ring. Naturally, I was the 
 one to answer, and many a night I recog- 
 
A Wife's Best Friend 7 
 
 nized the voice of my wife's best friend in the 
 "Hello, is Sue J there?" — without the 
 slightest evidence that she knew my voice or 
 of my existence. Then would follow a long 
 conversation, in which Sue would lay plans 
 for a reunion the following week in town, or 
 together they would agree to pass the night 
 
 with Mildred in , collegian Mildred 
 
 being another of the same vintage. 
 
 These talks would always occur when I 
 happened to be in the most absorbing por- 
 tion of a thriller or engaged upon writing my 
 weekly family letter, and of course it knocked 
 my mind into a cocked hat. 
 
 There were other times when my wife's 
 best friend came to us for a few days. Gen- 
 erally these visits were planned while I was 
 on a business trip. 
 
 "The B.F. is coming on Tuesday, so you 
 need not worry about my being lonely," Sue 
 would remark demurely. Sue has both a 
 
8 The Reflections of a T.B.M. 
 
 sense of proportion and a sense of humor. 
 It is a great relief in a wife. 
 
 "Righto. Give the college yell for me, 
 and give three long meow cats at the end in- 
 stead of Tiger," I would reply facetiously. 
 
 Plans have a way, however, of miscarry- 
 ing — the best of them; and not long ago 
 one of these business trips fell through at the 
 last moment and I came home to dinner to 
 find my wife and her best friend cozily en- 
 sconced in our bedroom, both in kimonos, 
 and both eating crackers and sipping choco- 
 late in recollection of the good old college 
 sprees. 
 
 Great was the consternation thereon. The 
 B.F. with a dignity worthy of a Portia un- 
 folded herseK from the sofa and, with a 
 "This is a pleasant surprise, Robert," moved 
 majestically to the door, in one hand her cup 
 and saucer and in the other a hot-water bot- 
 tle, her steps noiseless. I afterwards found 
 her slippers on the sofa. 
 
A Wife's Best Friend 9 
 
 My wife was convulsed. "Why on earth 
 didn't you telephone?" she exclaimed be- 
 tween sobs of laughter. 
 
 "Oh, I thought I would like to see what 
 these college debauches were like," I mur- 
 mured, "and now I imagine I am out a din- 
 ner." 
 
 "Not a bit of it," Sue declared stoutly. 
 "In a jiffy we'll have a high old meal for 
 you." And she did. 
 
 What a Best Friend needs is a husband. 
 I discovered this when Sue's collegiate better 
 half took Francis Bayard into partnership. 
 Poor girl, she had clung to the college game 
 in self-defense and because of a certain shy- 
 ness which, I imagine, in some people as- 
 sumes a peculiarly offensive tinge of preco- 
 city. In any event, as Mrs. Bayard she 
 became human to me, and since that time 
 we have been able to laugh about the good old 
 college days without a taint of bitterness. 
 
10 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 Sue is of course delighted at the outcome, 
 for she is devoted to Mary Bayard, and 
 while she used to joke over our incompati- 
 bility, she felt it none the less. 
 
 And yet we have our discussions, serious 
 ones, over the question of college for the 
 girls, for we have a daughter and some day 
 the issue must be met. I still am of the opin- 
 ion that a girl should learn something be- 
 sides those subjects taught in the average 
 school for young girls. My daughter must 
 be seK-reliant (Heaven knows they are that 
 in these days, all of them !) and she must be 
 seK-supporting in case the need comes. But 
 that does not in my opinion (the opinion of a 
 T. B. M.) require a college education. Sue 
 declares it does. The judgment must be left 
 to you, dear reader. 
 
THE MODERN MOTHER 
 
THE MODERN MOTHER 
 "Oh, you modern mother!" exclaimed Amit 
 Betsy, who had come to stay with us as a 
 matter of convenience to her — but not to 
 me, I reflected miserably, after the third day. 
 
 "What's modern about mother?" I asked 
 mildly. Being but a T. B. M., I had thought 
 of mothers as perennially and even epochally 
 the same since Eve. To me mothers always 
 seemed to do just exactly the same thing, 
 namely, to acquire children and bring them 
 up. There was the period of two-hour feed- 
 ings and then three. There were bathing 
 episodes. There were what are known as 
 "bubbles," which require the offspring to 
 assume a reclining position face down and to 
 submit to a gentle agitating motion until 
 said bubbles disappeared. 
 
 And later there was the period of rubbers 
 
14 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 and overcoats worn at appropriate times, 
 and so on up to curtain lectures upon boyish 
 pranks or hoydenish behavior, but always 
 the same. 
 
 ) "But, no," exclaimed Aunt Betsy, "it is 
 not the same at all! Dear little Dickey is 
 crying his heart out upstairs and your wife " 
 (Aunt Betsy is my aunt, not Sue's) "pays no 
 attention to him. Now in my day — *' Here 
 I was startled, for Aunt Betsy is a maiden 
 lady of somewhat advanced age and I was 
 dreading a revelation — "In my day, when 
 Sister Ann's children were babies, crying was 
 considered a danger signal. That was the 
 time to watch for symptoms." 
 
 "Symptoms.^" asked my wife, just com- 
 ing into the room. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, a Httle wearily; "Aunt 
 Betsy says when a child cries you should 
 look for symptoms." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Sue. "Dickey-Bird 's all 
 
The Modern Mother 15 
 
 right. All he wants is to be taken up and 
 petted, and I am trying to cure him. I don't 
 believe in pampering children. Spoil them 
 in the first five years of their lives and they 
 will be spoiled for all time." Sue went hum- 
 ming out toward the kitchen unconcerned at 
 Aunt Betsy's glare. But, being a T. B. M., 
 I also escaped. It was not until Dickey was 
 ten that Aunt Betsy came for another visit. 
 
 At this time Dickey was an adventurous 
 spirit. We were having some difficulty with 
 him, I admit. In fact, as all know, the 
 T. B. M. is at his worst just after returning 
 from the office and it was at such times that 
 Dickey's exploits were narrated and punish- 
 ment accorded. 
 
 Upon this particular afternoon, it was a 
 white, pinched-f aced Aunt Betsy who opened 
 the door for me and who gasped out the 
 mysterious words, " Dickey 's gone and done 
 it this time!" 
 
16 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Gone and done what?" I asked appre- 
 hensively. 
 
 *'I told him not to go!" wailed the old 
 lady. 
 
 *' Go where?" I demanded. 
 
 "But he won't mind me!" she continued. 
 
 Just then my wife came in from the 
 kitchen bearing a hot-water bag filled from 
 the kettle. 
 
 "What's this all about?" I said somewhat 
 fiercely. 
 
 "Dickey fell through the ice and got 
 soaked," she replied calmly. " But it 's noth- 
 ing except that he was scared to death, and 
 I'm glad of it." And off she went to ad- 
 minister to the culprit. 
 
 Later in our room she gave me a report of 
 the casualty. It appeared that Dickey and 
 his two cronies had decided to try skating. 
 It was their first appearance, encouraged by 
 a Christmas gift of skates a fortnight before. 
 
The Modern Mother 17 
 
 She had advised against it, as she told the 
 boys the ice was not thick enough, but, boy- 
 like, they thought they knew better. Sue 
 had not forbidden Dickey, for she is a great 
 believer in education by experience and she 
 knew that the little pond was shallow and 
 that nothing serious could happen. So she 
 had watched the proceedings from behind 
 the curtains of her upper window, while 
 Aunt Betsy in agony viewed the same pro- 
 ceedings from the living-room. No ill effects 
 were apparent next morning, when Dickey, 
 in excellent spirits and with the conscious- 
 ness of having been through a real experi- 
 ence, trudged happily to school. 
 
 "An only child," Sue always asserted, 
 " is more to be pitied than any other type of 
 human being." And so Dickey was followed 
 by Mary Bird two years younger; and the 
 Shrimp, alias James Rollins, the following 
 year — to be more exact upon the 4th day 
 
18 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 of March at the convenient hour of three in 
 the morning, a morning by the way upon 
 which he was not expected and, conse- 
 quently, the household was thrown into a 
 state of excitement bordering upon panic. 
 It was only the calm and presence of mind of 
 Sue herself which brought order to the cha- 
 otic, kimono-ed group which constituted our 
 menage. Many an evening, being a T. B. M., 
 I have berated the telephone as the inven- 
 tion of a brilliant but besotted gossip, but 
 upon this occasion I blessed the man who 
 harnessed the sound waves and drove them 
 by wire. 
 
 Such was the Shrimp's coming, and his 
 exploits up to the present moment have been 
 somewhat similar in their inopportuneness. 
 For instance, on the morning of our moving 
 to the country, when everything was packed, 
 the house ready for closing, and the motor at 
 the door, he announced that he had swal- 
 
The Modern Mother 19 
 
 lowed a pin. Sue was ready for the emer- 
 gency and produced dry bread from her 
 handbag, intended for a midday lunch, 
 telephoned the doctor to be on call in case of 
 trouble, and then proceeded to carry out our 
 plan as if nothing had happened; and noth- 
 ing did happen, except that Shrimp now 
 proudly exhibits the pin stuck through a 
 ribbon, as the relic of a past achievement. 
 
 But that was long ago, and many a child- 
 ish event has stirred the household and 
 strained the nerves since those early days; 
 and yet we continue to live along in normal 
 grooves with Mother Sue in charge, yet 
 wonderfully free to do an astounding num- 
 ber of things which Aunt Betsy, good old 
 soul, who will never worry again, would have 
 declared to be no part of a mother's duties. 
 
 Sue plays a good game of golf, she enjoys 
 bridge, as a pianist she is no mean performer. 
 The amount of time she spends on church 
 
20 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 matters leads me to believe that religion 
 after all is not on the wane, and as secretary 
 of the local woman's club she has been won- 
 derfully successful in securing interesting 
 speakers for the various meetings — and, to 
 balance these more serious occupations, she 
 dances divinely. Even aT. B. M. is no longer 
 tired when he has good music, a good floor, 
 elbow-room, and Sue for a partner. Here 
 again Aunt Betsy would have murmured 
 and remurmured that a mother's place was 
 in her home; but Sue applied her recreation 
 to her children's upbringing with good effect 
 and secured a diversion which enabled her 
 to carry on with youth in her heart and 
 spring in her step, to say nothing of a wealth 
 of brown hair with not a suspicion of gray 
 and a complexion as refreshing and colorful 
 as that of her daughter. 
 
 Dickey has been her companion and op- 
 ponent at golf since he was twelve, with the 
 
The Modern Mother 21 
 
 result that his handicap was lower than any 
 boy of his age. 
 
 Mary-Bird played the piano, albeit her 
 repertoire consisted of rag-time music you 
 could not forget and verses you should not 
 remember; the Shrimp roared out the Sun- 
 day hymns as if he were sitting in the cheer- 
 ing section of a Harvard and Yale football 
 game and victory depended upon vocal 
 strength. We played bridge together, and 
 the speakers at the woman's club meetings, 
 usually coming to us afterwards for dinner, 
 gave us a glimpse of the outer world and a 
 desire for knowledge which acted as a spur 
 to every member of the family. 
 
 Yes, perhaps Aunt Betsy was right after 
 all in a way. There are mothers and moth- 
 ers, and the modern mother is perhaps dif- 
 ferent from Eve in certain aspects, but they 
 are after and above all just mothers, and the 
 finest thing on earth, God bless them! 
 
THE LADY NEXT DOOR 
 
THE LADY NEXT DOOR 
 
 I DO not know the Lady Next Door; neither 
 does my wife. One rarely ever knows the 
 Lady Next Door in the city, and in the 
 country, as there are no next doors, there are 
 no females of this species. Instead there are 
 neighbors, and this sizes up fairly accurately 
 the difference between town and country 
 life; or, at least, that is the way my wife 
 gauges it. I am merely a T. B .M., and in 
 matters social I am scarcely more than what 
 is known in stage circles as "first walking 
 gentleman." 
 
 In the coimtry there is a quality of loy- 
 alty either to the town or to the people, if we 
 except our relatives (of whom at times the 
 less said the better), which excuses much, 
 but overlooks nothing; whereas in the city 
 no excuse is adequate and yet much is over- 
 looked, and among other people who are 
 
26 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 overlooked are those numerous ladies who 
 live next door to us and to our friends. And 
 when I say overlooked, I speak with a dual 
 meaning. 
 
 I have often wondered, both as a T. B. M. 
 and as an admirer of architecture, who was 
 the happy originator of the bow window, or, 
 as we now speak of it, the bay window. We 
 think of Christopher Wren when we see a 
 fine specimen of a certain type of church 
 architecture. Bulfinch is a household word 
 in New England. McKim, Mead and White, 
 and Burnham typify all that is best in our 
 modern building and planning in this coun- 
 try; but who was it who invented the bay 
 window.^ — for his name should go along 
 with those of Edison and Bell in providing 
 an invention which has enabled the opposite 
 sex to observe and from observation to re- 
 late gossip which, in past generations, was 
 as a sealed book. 
 
The Lady Next Door 27 
 
 In this particular case I happen to know 
 all about the Lady Next Door. Not because 
 I have committed any indiscretion which 
 would mar these printed pages, but because 
 of my wife's assiduous use of our bay win- 
 dow. My secret conviction is that I have 
 missed a trick in not knowing the Lady Next 
 Door. That her acquaintance is a pleasure is 
 daily evidenced, for she entertains at a pro- 
 digious rate. Any one who reads the social 
 columns of our Sunday papers can tell you 
 that we have a privileged seat at all of her 
 "at homes," for our point of vantage gives 
 us a "close-up" of every one who enters her 
 vestibule. 
 
 I have seen the Lady Next Door so many 
 times, and have heard my wife read about 
 her so often from the papers, that she is a 
 very vivid personality to me, and so, as I sit 
 in my window smoking a cigarette with my 
 evening paper on my knees, the way a 
 
28 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 T. B. M. should sit after a misspent day, I 
 pee her coming up the street at a swinging 
 gait in a walking-suit which my wife de- 
 clares to be quite new. I suspected it myself, 
 as the skirt seemed more abbreviated than 
 those which I am accustomed to view, and 
 for this reason, as well as others sufficiently 
 good, I remain planted in my chair and allow 
 my paper to drop to the floor. The Lady 
 Next Door is tall and slim; not taller than a 
 woman should be — her eyes would not meet 
 mine on a level and I am not a tall man; so 
 that as girls go in these days of feminine 
 monsters, she is not tall, but her figure gives 
 me the impression of height, and with it she 
 has the buoyancy and spirit of a young girl; 
 and yet here again I am told by my wife 
 that she is not young, at least not less than 
 thirty-seven. I do not know why my wife 
 should not have conceded thirty-five as an 
 easier and rounder figure, but she would not. 
 
The Lady Next Door 29 
 
 But in my poor T. B. M. opinion she would 
 pass for thirty or even under, as she stands 
 on the pavement talking to an elderly woman 
 who has come from the other direction. 
 
 The aforesaid walking-suit is of elephant 
 gray, close-fitting and delightfully plain, 
 and her furs — quite unnecessary — are of 
 silver fox and must have cost something. 
 I think it wiser not to ask my wife the ap- 
 proximate price or even to mention furs, for 
 we have recently considered the purchase of 
 a set and I have determined to give it up. 
 Her hat is a sort of three-cornered aflfair of 
 black velvet, very chic and very plain, and, 
 therefore, I am told, very expensive; and 
 speaking of hats reminds me of her other 
 extremities, which I feel sure would rejoice 
 Mr. Coles Phillips, who for years has stirred 
 the American people and brought customers 
 to the manufacturer of silk hose. 
 
 It is said that to place the figure before 
 
30 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 the face is a common masculine trait, but 
 as I am a T. B. M. this hardly requires an 
 explanation. The Lady Next Door is so in- 
 variably animated that it is difficult to catch 
 her features, one by one, long enough in re- 
 pose to give a proper sense of their propor- 
 tions. To mention wavy brown hair, which 
 my wife says is a perpetual wave, does not 
 to my mind detract from its character. To 
 speak of the pink-and-white qualities of her 
 complexion neither affirms nor denies the use 
 of cosmetics. All I know is that she is re- 
 markably pretty, and as I look out upon the 
 scene and observe John Hamilton, an old 
 friend of mine, stop and join the ladies and 
 see the delightful smile with which she wel- 
 comes him, I begin to wonder why my wife 
 should not at least call and pave the way for 
 the T. B. M. But she won't — at least I know 
 she will not if I ask her — and yet she ad- 
 mits that the Lady Next Door never affects 
 
The Lady Next Door 31 
 
 the silly fashions which mark the type of 
 woman to which she claims the Lady Next 
 Door belongs. For instance, she does not 
 wear little puffs of hair over her ears or pow- 
 der her nose on the street, nor does she go to 
 the other extreme and lug a chow of a dog 
 about in her arms, and ride astride every 
 morning at nine. 
 
 In short, to me as I sit in my window a 
 T. B. M. at low ebb, I consider the Lady 
 Next Door as a lost opportunity until the 
 idea occurs to me that John Hamilton can ar- 
 range the whole thing for me. I say nothing 
 of this to my wife, at present at least, and 
 pick up my evening paper to indicate that 
 the Lady Next Door has no further interest 
 for me. 
 
 This all happened a year or more ago, even 
 longer, now I think of it, for time flies and 
 children do too after a certain period, the 
 
32 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 period which poets of the older order in- 
 variably liken to the departure of the feath- 
 ered flock from the ancestral nest. It was 
 on account of our children that we sold our 
 town house, including the bay window, and 
 took up our residence some jQfteen miles out 
 of the city, just escaping the suburbs, and 
 settling into a long, rangey country house 
 with a fine view of the hills, an excellent 
 school for the children, and pleasant neigh- 
 bors, many of whom we had known for years. 
 
 A T. B. M. is always unmistakable, but 
 in the country, especially at week-ends, he 
 is less objectionable than at any other time, 
 more amenable and more able to endure 
 domestic shocks. 
 
 Upon arriving home for lunch on Satur- 
 day of the particular week in question, my 
 wife met me in our hall and I could see by 
 the vivid little patches of red in each cheek 
 that something had excited her. 
 
The Lady Next Door 33 
 
 "What's the matter, Bunny dear?" I 
 cried. I always call my wife "Bunny dear'* 
 in times of stress or when in argumentative 
 vein. I don't know how I came to do it, for 
 it is a silly, foolish name, too commonplace 
 for words, but it has become a habit, just 
 like the movies or the League of Nations, 
 no better, no worse. 
 
 "Nothing is the matter," replied Sue; 
 "but who do you suppose bought the Colt- 
 ings house and is already in it, bag and bag- 
 gage?" 
 
 "Can't imagine," I answered, "unless it's 
 William Jennings Bryan or Theda Bara." 
 
 "It's the Lady Next Door," declared Sue, 
 with all the stage presence to which such a 
 statement was entitled. 
 
 Remembering the far-famed story of 
 doubtful origin upon the recent visit of the 
 Queen of Belgium, I could only echo faintly, 
 "Sue, you've said a mouthful." 
 
34 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 At lunch I mustered up my courage and 
 asked my wife if she had thought of caUing 
 upon our new neighbor. 
 
 "Of course," she repHed, "we must make 
 it as pleasant as possible for her. You re- 
 member how much we appreciated how peo- 
 ple tumbled in upon us when we first came 
 here?" 
 
 "Yes," I remarked, "and most of them 
 came in couples. What should you think of 
 our strolling over there together this after- 
 noon?" 
 
 "Fine." (Sue was becoming almost slangy, 
 from the children.) 
 
 And so it came to pass that the Lady Next 
 Door is now one of our neighbors and quite 
 the most intimate of Sue's friends. What 
 curious pranks propinquity can play and 
 what wonderful things Dame Nature ac- 
 complishes! 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE 
 
THE TRAINED NURSE 
 
 Now that the various members of my fam- 
 ily are all downstairs, eating three perfectly 
 good meals a day at the usual hours set aside 
 by habit for digestion and contentment, or 
 indigestion and torment, as the case and 
 cook"may]decree, I can once more look upon 
 life with the calm assurance that for the time 
 being we are free from that species of highly 
 organized modern, the trained nurse. 
 
 I admit at the start that nurses are indis- 
 pensable, efficient, a solace and a comfort. 
 I agree to their presence, welcome their com- 
 ing, speed their parting, and obey their 
 slightest whim; but I have at all times the 
 feeling that instead of being master in my 
 own house, I am really inferior to the hired 
 man, who makes himself doubly useful by 
 bringing up the wood both when it is needed 
 and when it is not. 
 
38 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 The ordinary man of thirty-five who is 
 blessed with a wife and the ordinary number 
 of children is certain to have encountered a 
 number of trained nurses. It may be said 
 with perfect propriety that he has become 
 intimately associated with them. As a mat- 
 ter of fact they are ubiquitous, gliding softly 
 about by day in immaculate white (fre- 
 quently laundered at considerable expense 
 to himself) and by night in gayly fashioned 
 kimonos, often of a pattern which sets one's 
 teeth on edge. They glide with equal assur- 
 ance and modesty in either garb, and I for 
 one am at all times aware of their entire dis- 
 regard of my presence. 
 
 This winter might well be termed an open 
 season for trained nurses. At least it turned 
 out to be so in my family, for one after an- 
 other nearly every member of the family was 
 at one time laid low. It was of course hard 
 for all of them, but it was also hard for me. 
 
The Trained Nurse 39 
 
 In the first place, my business affairs were 
 trying in the extreme. No one who has any- 
 thing to do with a large force of people has 
 escaped what the world calls "labor trou- 
 bles" and gloats over, and what I call the 
 greatest menace which has come to life, lib- 
 erty, and the pursuit of happiness. 
 
 In the second place, the expenses of living 
 were so closely mated to the limits of my 
 income that any extraordinary expense top- 
 pled the balance over into the debit column 
 of my household ledger with all the attend- 
 ant worries, with which again the ordinary 
 business man of thirty-five or thereabouts is 
 equally familiar. 
 
 And lastly, I was genuinely concerned 
 over the health of my small son, who failed 
 to rally from his operation as rapidly as we 
 all had hoped. 
 
 After what seemed an interminable period 
 of financial drain and complete occupation 
 
40 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 of my Lares and Penates, the house once 
 more became normal, and 1 could review at 
 leisure the physical and mental eccentricities 
 of the quartet of nurses who had wintered 
 in the front guest-room, newly papered in 
 delicate lavender, with yellow chintzes, and 
 filled with the choicest of our collection of 
 antique furniture. 
 
 The first was Miss Barbara Q. Winston. 
 I remember it in detail because we called 
 her "question" in the sanctity of our own 
 apartment. Her questions put the ordinary 
 four-year-old to shame. I also remembered 
 the name because of her weekly checks. 
 
 Miss Winston was one of those placid 
 creatures who are a real comfort in times of 
 serious illness when quiet is necessary and 
 watchfulness imperative; but with con- 
 valescence the placidity became irksome. 
 She seemed anchored to the place, and her 
 conversation bravely attempted and hon- 
 
The Trained Nurse 41 
 
 estly intended got upon my nerves. It was 
 prefaced invariably by "I don't suppose." 
 
 "I don't suppose you had any trouble in 
 getting home this evening," I remember her 
 saying one night. Now as a matter of fact I 
 did not have any trouble in getting home, 
 but it was the first time for a week that I had 
 not had a beast of a time, for we had experi- 
 enced an old-fashioned blizzard. Her ques- 
 tion made it out that homecoming was an 
 easy matter, while I felt it to be a positive 
 triumph and an unique event to come out 
 by train and arrive on time. 
 
 One morning she came smilingly to break- 
 fast, and after consuming her grapefruit 
 broke the silence by saying, " I don't suppose 
 it would be of any use to ask the doctor to 
 come in this morning." My breakfast stuck 
 in my throat, my wife grew pale and rose 
 unsteadily. We imagined the worst. 
 
 "Why, what's the trouble? " I managed to 
 gasp. 
 
42 The Reflections of a T.B.M. 
 
 "Oh, nothing," she replied sweetly; "Wil- 
 liam's temperature is normal, and I thought 
 if the doctor came he might let him up part 
 of the day.'* 
 
 And so it went on until the day of de- 
 parture, when her last words were, "I don't 
 suppose we shall meet again"; and even 
 then I did not dare agree with her, but my 
 fervent wishes echoed her thought. 
 
 Mary Boyle was a fat girl with a beautiful 
 complexion and a voice like a cyclone. Why 
 she ever took up nursing I cannot imagine, 
 and those who permitted her to practice the 
 art should have been treated as criminals. 
 Her metier should have been in the auto- 
 matic basement of a department store, 
 where her qualities of speech and personal 
 strength would have given her a strangle 
 hold on any bargain hunter. 
 
 Mealtimes with trained nurses stand un- 
 rivaled among the social amenities of the 
 
The Trained Nurse 43 
 
 present day. To a polite query on my part 
 as to her home she boomed: 
 
 "My people belong in Kalamazoo. Fa- 
 ther's in the building trade. Used to be a 
 mason, but now he's a contractor." 
 
 I congratulated her upon her good fortune 
 and mumbled something about the rapidity 
 with which he seemed to ascend the laddei 
 of fortune. 
 
 "He don't climb no ladders," she coun- 
 tered with some spirit. "He sits in an office 
 just like you does. We've got an elegant 
 house he built himself. Just got it done the 
 last time I was home. It's real cute, all 
 stucco and fine plate-glass windows. Every- 
 thing is up to the minute" — and then she 
 went into minute details as to the bathroom 
 fixtures, which gave us an indelible image of 
 that highly useful apartment of which one re- 
 sembles another in this country ad infinitum. 
 
 Miss Boyle came during a period of con- 
 
44 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 valescence. Heaven knows what we should 
 have done with her, or what she would have 
 done, if our little patient had been seriously 
 ill at the time, for her boisterous personality 
 and lack of culture were a torture to us all. 
 I know she was an exception to the general 
 rule, and I cursed our luck each evening as I 
 journeyed dismally home from the office. 
 
 Our third visitation was on the occasion of 
 Mary Bird's measles. It seemed to me hard 
 lines that Mary Bird, aged ten, should have 
 measles this year of all years, but it was 
 infinitely worse for her, poor little mite, for 
 it came the day before the last dancing class. 
 It had been a particularly trying day at the 
 office, and I came home with visions of a 
 quiet evening unruffled by domestic trials, 
 to find my wife on the sofa completely dis- 
 couraged, and Miss Wheatherby installed 
 upstairs. The "$35.00 per" was apparently 
 going on forever. 
 
The Trained Nurse 45 
 
 Measles is a nuisance, but it is not so seri- 
 ous but that the family can take its meals at 
 the accustomed hours, and so at dinner Miss 
 Wheatherby made her appearance and I 
 made the most courteous obeisance I could 
 muster. 
 
 Miss Wheatherby was efficiency itself, 
 but as a dinner companion she was a disaster. 
 Her whole life, it seemed, was enveloped in 
 her work, and at table she gave us, one upon 
 another, in terrifying clearness the accounts 
 of her latest victims. 
 
 With soup she told us that she had just 
 come from an appendix victim, who had 
 been in the hospital nine weeks with com- 
 plications which appeared to me unbeliev- 
 able. 
 
 During the meat course she touched upon 
 the vitality of an old woman who had under- 
 gone an operation for gallstones, and for 
 some reason which 1 did not understand the 
 
46 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 operation was not successful and had to be 
 repeated; and at dessert she told with real 
 relish of an operation she had witnessed 
 where the patient had a tumor on the brain 
 which was successfully removed through the 
 nose. 
 
 For two days my digestive organs suffered 
 acutely, and then I gave up coming home to 
 meals until Miss Wheatherby, bag in hand 
 and check in pocketbook, took her departure 
 in pursuit of some unfortunate with a symp- 
 tom worthy of her chronicle. 
 
 With the measles over and spring in full 
 sway, we felt that peace and quiet had come 
 to our household; but not so. James, our 
 third and youngest, aged four, was an ad- 
 venturer. He had found an old swing in the 
 back yard, and in propelling himself through 
 the air at a moment when his nurse was pre 
 sumably watching for the postman, he lost 
 his balance and broke his arm in two places. 
 
The Trained Nurse 47 
 
 That was the occasion for the installation 
 of Miss Grace Minturn. 
 
 The last catastrophe came as the prover- 
 bial last straw for my wife, who took to her 
 bed for a week with sheer exhaustion and a 
 touch of acute indigestion. Consequently, 
 Miss Minturn and I had it all to ourselves at 
 dinner each night, and I confess it was not 
 bad at all. 
 
 I rather fancy Miss Minturn was a favor- 
 ite at her hospital, and I suspect that she 
 had given some of the younger doctors a 
 "real time." She reminded me in appear- 
 ance of the Red Cross nurse in one of the war 
 posters. In short. Miss Minturn was a 
 peach, and we conversed upon the latest 
 jazz and never referred by word or thought 
 to the bitter struggle of sujffering mankind. 
 
 Toward the end of the week there came 
 a warm, beautiful day, which might have 
 passed for summer. It seemed to me hard 
 
48 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 that Miss Minturn should not have a bit of 
 fresh air and so I suggested a Httle spin in 
 the motor after dinner. As James was sleep- 
 ing the sleep of the innocent, she gratefully 
 accepted, and we ran through the Park Sys- 
 tem and remained out for an hour or so. I 
 found her a delightful companion. 
 
 The next morning, to my great surprise, 
 my wife joined us at breakfast, declaring that 
 she felt quite fit again. I was delighted. 
 That evening when I returned Miss Minturn 
 was no more. My wife merely said that she 
 and our nursemaid were now quite capable 
 of taking care of James and that it hardly 
 seemed necessary any longer to pay for a 
 trained nurse unless 1 enjoyed this form of 
 extravagance. There was the least glint in 
 her eye, but enough to keep me silent. And 
 so ended our winter of trained specialists. 
 
THE SHOW GHIL 
 
THE SHOW GIRL 
 The T. B. M. was first discovered in a front- 
 row seat at a musical comedy. It must not, 
 however, be imagined that this is his habit- 
 ual or permanent haunt. It is simply his 
 method of passing away the time when he is 
 on a business trip, or when he is kept in 
 town late by pressure of work, or when he 
 has friends from other cities to entertain, or 
 when he is fed up with the sort of dinner 
 which is served upon cook's night out, or 
 when a few classmates decide to have a re- 
 union, or when — but, nevertheless, it is not 
 his invariable custom to occupy this posi- 
 tion, believe it or not as you may. , 
 
 Some assert that the T. B. M. first dis- 
 covered musical comedy, others that the 
 T. B. M. was first discovered and that, as 
 a result, musical comedies came into being. 
 
52 The Reflections of a T.B.M. 
 
 like Adam and Eve. 1 am rather of the opin- 
 ion that the T. B. M. came first, as I can 
 never imagine a world without this ornament 
 of the male sex, but the present-day musical 
 comedy rather bears out the Eve theory, 
 for the producers are striving their best to 
 reproduce the original and they are close 
 upon success. 
 
 While the T. B. M. rejoices in the thick- 
 ness of his pocketbook, which permits the 
 purchase of a front-row seat or a Rolls-Royce 
 (they are both about the same price now), 
 he has passed the age which hastens from 
 the lobby to the stage door and from there 
 in company with another to one of those 
 hospitable caravansaries, where by deposit- 
 ing a small fortune one may secure a grape- 
 fruit salad and something in a glass which 
 may kill at sight. Yes, he has passed that 
 age, but he still looks upon it with great 
 interest and a certain regret, and if now and 
 
The Show Girl 53 
 
 then he is asked to join a little party of this 
 general character, he invariably accepts. 
 Before doing so, however, he is apt to step 
 into the washroom, adjust his tie, pull down 
 his waistcoat, and arrange his hair in the 
 most approved and camouflaged manner. 
 
 Most men will carry to the grave a linger- 
 ing appetite for the companionship of beau- 
 tiful women. The day for them of chivalry 
 is over, but the recollection, only too vivid, 
 of pretty faces, merry banter, a tinkle of 
 glass, and a twang of string as the music 
 floats about them, never loses its allurement. 
 So the T. B. M. curses himself for an old fool 
 and joins the table, where he is introduced 
 to Tansey Tangerine, whose "pleased to 
 meet you" rather jolts his sensibilities. Af- 
 ter an heroic effort at a conversation which 
 no vocal power on earth could coax from the 
 limits bounded by Seventh Avenue on the 
 one side. Sixth on the other, and ranging up 
 
54 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 and down from the Circle to Forty-Second 
 Street, the T. B. M. decides that a dance is 
 the only thing to relieve the situation. While 
 not as young as he once was, the T. B. M. 
 is by no manner of means tottering to the 
 grave. His tottering is decidedly up to 
 date, so that Tansey is forced to remark, 
 "Say, you're simply great!" — but she 
 spoils it by adding, " Gee, I wish the other 
 boys could dance same as you," with which 
 she resignedly composes her cheek against 
 his as if preparing for a night snooze. 
 
 This exploit on the part of Tansey gal- 
 vanizes our friend into action. What a 
 blamed old fool he is! Here in public 
 dancing fatuously around with a show girl 
 in a manner which only the week before he 
 has criticized as obnoxious in the extreme. 
 What the was he coming to? 
 
 It must stop, and it does stop when the 
 music ends, but be it said, alas, for our 
 
The Show Girl 55 
 
 T. B. M. that the manner of the dance re- 
 mains the same until the last bar is played. 
 It is only then that he makes his excuses, 
 and, lighting a cigar, walks back to his ho- 
 tel, cursing inwardly. 
 
A MOTHER-IN-LAW 
 
A MOTHER-IN-LAW 
 
 Just before my marriage, I heard a great 
 many stories about Mothers-in-Law. It was 
 about the time when cartoonists and penny- 
 a-Hners were evidently hard put to it for 
 material. There was a wave of mother-in- 
 law propaganda which rolled across our 
 continent, gathering momentum from every 
 little daily paper in our land until it reached 
 my humble lodgings, where my associates, 
 knowing of my engagement, directed the 
 current straight at me upon all occasions. 
 Those were the days before I became a 
 T. B. M. I was strong in confidence, exuber- 
 ant in spirits, immune from raggings, and, 
 being thoroughly and completely in love, I 
 regarded my mother-in-law-to-be with awe 
 tinctured by respect and, withal, with fas- 
 cination. She told me such wonderful stories 
 
60 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 of my Sue, from her baby days, through the 
 Tomboy age, to maidenhood. I drank it in, 
 all of it, and a lot more; for I heard all about 
 Sue's brothers and sisters and others of the 
 clan, and just then the Hood family was the 
 one topic which possessed the deepest inter- 
 est for me, 
 
 I still regard my mother-in-law with awe. 
 That fund of family information has been 
 tapped continuously from that day to this, 
 but the supply is apparently as copious to- 
 day as then. While I have absorbed a vast 
 amount of information regarding the entire 
 tribe of Hoods, I regret to say that an equal 
 if not a greater mass of genealogical data has 
 passed me by for sheer lack of mental capac- 
 ity. Mrs. Hood (my wife playfully calls her 
 "Motherhood," but I do not) visits us at 
 certain intervals — at Christmas-time, in 
 the early summer, and late fall — one week 
 or thereabouts at each visit. 
 
A Mother-in-Law 6l 
 
 It is at such times, after the family has 
 retired, that I sit and wonder how a man can 
 change so completely as I have done, and 
 my reflections are saddening. Mrs. Hood 
 must be the same, only more so. I recall 
 certain of her family stories which I can 
 trace back to the early days when I first 
 heard them. They are the same stories. 
 One I remember about Uncle John. Uncle 
 John was in love at that time with Aunt 
 Martha, and they had "philopened'* to- 
 gether. Uncle John, as was his wont, called 
 upon Aunt Martha every Sunday afternoon, 
 and he had conceived the idea of ringing the 
 bell, knowing Aunt Martha would open the 
 door, and of shouting "Philopena" into her 
 ears before she had time to know who it was. 
 As it happened. Aunt Martha knew who 
 was there — and who would not under the 
 circumstances? And so she spent some time 
 preening in front of her mirror before answer- 
 
62 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 ing the bell. In fact, she was so long in com- 
 ing that Uncle John, restless and uneasy, 
 took to studying the signs upon the other 
 side of the street. One sign in particular 
 attracted his attention. It was 
 CASSIDY 
 Caskets and Coffins 
 Euphonious and rather fascinating, he 
 thought, as well as gruesome. Martha must 
 move away. The neighborhood was dis- 
 tinctly on the wane. "Cassidy — Caskets 
 and Coffins," he repeated thoughtfully. 
 Just then the door opened, and caught, as it 
 were, unawares. Uncle John shouted at the 
 top of his voice, CASSIDY, to which Aunt 
 Martha replied at leisure, "Philopena!" 
 
 It was a perfectly good story, and I re- 
 member laughing with a gentle and agree- 
 able politeness. Since then I have heard it 
 several times, and I have been known to tell 
 it myself. Mrs. Hood got it off to-night as a 
 
A Mother-in-Law 63 
 
 brand-new one, and I wondered what there 
 was so devilishly funny about it. Yes, it is 
 I who have changed, and that is the sad 
 thing about it to me. 
 
 Mrs. Hood, when she is not reminiscing, 
 has another trait which now and then comes 
 to the surface. She has a way of seeing re- 
 semblances. She has been with us only two 
 days this visit. On the first night we were 
 all having dinner, or supper, or tea — what- 
 ever you call it when the children sit up and 
 the cook goes out. Mary Bird was in high 
 feather and excited over Grandma's ar- 
 rival, and her little face was flushed and 
 rosy. 
 
 "Robert," exclaimed Mrs. Hood, "I do 
 believe Mary is going to be a real Hood!" 
 (Of course I took no exception to that.) 
 "James used to say that his mother's profile 
 was like a Grecian cameo, so perfectly chis- 
 eled were her features, while her complexion 
 
64 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 was so clear and white that she was known 
 throughout her Hfe as the Lily of the Valley." 
 Poor Mary's little snub nose and her ruddy 
 complexion were but a background for the 
 two wide-gazing blue eyes which took in 
 these remarks against the time when she 
 could dart to the mirror to see how the Lily 
 of the Valley really looked. 
 
 At another time, Mrs. Hood took|me to 
 task. "Robert," she remarked with genuine 
 concern, "you ought to take better care of 
 yourself. You are growing more and more 
 to look like your Uncle Harry. It won't do 
 to get too stout." Uncle Harry died of apo- 
 plexy, so that this resemblance stirred in 
 me no enthusiasm. 
 
 "I believe the time has come when you 
 should seriously consider going on a diet," 
 she continued. "Both James and his sister 
 Amelia tried a vegetarian diet and were 
 much benefited." 
 
A Mother-in-Law 65 
 
 "But they both had rheumatism," I in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 "That may be, but it did them good just 
 the same,'* asserted my mother-in-law con- 
 fidently. "Then Billy Severance, you re- 
 member, had to give up sugar and bread- 
 stuffs and all starchy things." 
 
 "He was threatened with diabetes," I 
 explained. 
 
 "He actually had it," replied Mrs. Hood 
 triumphantly; "but before he died the diet 
 had cut his weight down amazingly." 
 
 "I'll do something," I promised, begin- 
 ning to fidget over the prospects of symp- 
 toms which accompany increasing weight. 
 
 "That's right," replied Mrs. Hood cheer- 
 fully. "I knew Sue's husband resembled her 
 father in being able to rise above tempta- 
 tions of the flesh. What a man he was! 
 What a life he led!" 
 
 "What a life, indeed!" I thought. 
 
66 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 The climax of this particular visit came 
 later in the week, when Sue was stricken 
 with a sudden and severe case of the "flu.'* 
 Mrs. Hood was staying over to go to the 
 Beveridge tea. Mrs. Beveridge was the 
 daughter of an old friend, and, as my mother- 
 in-law had declared upon several occasions, 
 Lila Beveridge was almost a daughter. " Her 
 mother and I went to school together, and 
 for four summers we lived side by side at 
 Rye. If ever two girls were more alike, I 
 should like to know it," she often remarked. 
 No, I will take that back. She did not re- 
 mark — she ejaculated; for this statement 
 was given with such strident conviction that 
 it awoke memories of early tales I had heard 
 about Lila's family. As a matter of fact, 
 Lila's mother had made what was known in 
 those days as a brilliant match. There was 
 plenty of money culled from the successful 
 sale of a patent medicine by Grandfather 
 
A Mother-in-Law 67 
 
 Brodkin, who was never mentioned, and 
 there was social distinction comfortably se- 
 cured from the ancestral line of Brewsters; 
 but there had been no love, and an overdose 
 of alcohol had done for Lila's father, who 
 passed the last years of his life in an asylum. 
 Mrs. Brewster, Lila's mother, still in the 
 social whirl, was considered a cold proposi- 
 tion, and she certainly showed no outward 
 indication of having treasured the recollec- 
 tion of those four summers at Rye other 
 than by an occasional card of invitation to 
 some large function which is recorded in the 
 papers as one of those events at which all 
 the world was present. 
 
 Sue, issuing commands from her bed, 
 much as General Shafter in the Spanish War 
 led his forces from his hammock, dictated 
 that I should accompany her mother to the 
 tea. Of all abominations, a tea to the T. B. M. 
 is the most revolting. The female who first 
 
68 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 promulgated this form of social torture must 
 have been educated in the Black Hole of 
 Calcutta. We went together, and by a mira- 
 cle we returned together, but in the interval 
 I allowed the gyrating mass of humanity to 
 carry me as it chose. An occasional eddy, or 
 the meeting of cross-currents, would bring 
 me face to face with some one of the opposite 
 sex, and then would take place a hackneyed 
 form of conversation which went like this: 
 
 I (with enthusiasm), "Well, well, well, 
 you here!" 
 
 She (with equal enthusiasm), "Of course, 
 but how about you? This is an honor. Lila 
 must be an old flame. Where is Sue?" 
 
 I (still with enthusiasm), "Sue's got the 
 flu." Then, remembering the enthusiasm, 
 "But she's quite all right." 
 
 She (with less enthusiasm), "Oh, I'm so 
 sorry." Then, glancing about to see the new 
 fall styles, "Give her my love and tell her 
 
A Mother-in-Law 69 
 
 she must be all right for Friday's luncheon 
 — sewing circle, you know." 
 
 I (finding that the currents were cross- 
 circuited), "Did you have a good summer?" 
 ' She (still looking about), " Perfectly splen- 
 did. We were at North East, you know"; 
 and then, after a pause, "Where were you?" 
 
 I (beginning to look about a bit, myself), 
 "Same old place on the North Shore. Sorry 
 you could not have come down for the week- 
 end." 
 
 She (suddenly remembering), "We were 
 so awfully disappointed, but Freddie was off 
 on a cruise at the time, and, oh, well, you 
 know how busy the summer is. It's so hec- 
 tic, with the children and all — what was it 
 I was saying?" 
 
 I (with renewed enthusiasm), "About the 
 hectic children." 
 
 She (turning from the styles to say im- 
 pressively), "Oh, yes, we wanted you so 
 
70 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 much to come up for a few days, but the 
 summer was so full up, and Billy had sum- 
 mer grip." 
 
 At this point the currents suddenly be- 
 came surcharged with energy and I found 
 my vis-a-vis had vanished, only to be re- 
 placed by another with the same vocal result. 
 
 After about three-quarters of an hour of 
 this sort of thing, I managed to escape to the 
 coat-room for a cigarette and a breath of air. 
 Freddie happened to be there for the same 
 reason. 
 
 "Rotten business this," I remarked. 
 
 "Worst kind of mess," he replied. "By 
 the way, I was frightfully sorry we could not 
 come down to your place last month when 
 you asked us. I was keen to go, but Bella 
 had a perfect mania for auction and could 
 not bear to give up a single day with the 
 Cranstons while they were there. We had a 
 hot competition." 
 
A Mother-in-Law 71 
 
 "Humph," I thought, "I wonder which is 
 right." 
 
 " Well, I guess I '11 put on my hat and coat 
 and wait outside." Which I did for some 
 little time, Freddie leaving me for the quiet 
 of his club, the evening paper, and "some- 
 thing" to take the taste of the tea and cake 
 away, as he explained. 
 
 On the way home Mrs. Hood attested that 
 it was the most delightful, and by all odds 
 the smartest, tea of the season! 
 
THE NEW STENOGRAPHER 
 
THE NEW STENOGRAPHER 
 
 To lose one's secretary is much the same as 
 to lose the power of speech or the use of one's 
 good right arm. It is a form of paralysis, 
 painless, but the occasion of great mental 
 suffering and a total loss of temper. In short, 
 it is a catastrophe of the major order and to 
 the T. B. M. it spells disaster. 
 
 To those of the "PoUyanna" class, who 
 are thankful for their blessings and recog- 
 nize them not only by sight but intuitively, 
 the sun and the moon, the three sensible 
 meals a day, the comfortable bed and con- 
 genial friendships are wonders for which 
 they never fail to rejoice, never. But to the 
 T. B. M. such matters are taken for granted. 
 It is only when the sun fails to appear, the 
 cook leaves, the bed squeaks, or the friends 
 fail to drop in that he begins to notice the 
 
76 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 amenities of life, and then he takes notice 
 with a vengeance and with piteous com- 
 plaint. And so the departure of his secretary 
 for more fertile fields of pecuniary harvest- 
 ing brought havoc into his life. 
 
 An efficient private secretary is one of the 
 most wonderful products of modern life. She 
 is the grand vizier of modern times, no mere 
 employee or cultivated menial. She is a 
 business helpmate, confidential in all mat- 
 ters pertaining to financial existence, famil- 
 iar with the innermost recesses of one's busi- 
 ness mind and mood, but undemonstrative 
 to an almost inhuman extent and incom- 
 municative to an incredible degree upon any 
 subject other than business. Such is the 
 product of the times when brought to the 
 nth. power of efficiency. There are, of course, 
 secretaries and secretaries — good, bad, and 
 indifferent; and also there are those who are 
 different, where the personal touch is at 
 
The New Stenographer 77 
 
 times overdone, even where it stretches to- 
 ward romance, when the daily routine is 
 fraught with other problems of a less imper- 
 sonal character, but such occasions are rare 
 in these days. The T. B. M., being a T. B. M., 
 is an automaton in office hours and expects 
 the wheels to revolve at a certain speed from 
 ten to five-thirty daily. This does not occur 
 with the going of Miss P. S. Her going has 
 changed the entire atmosphere of the office. 
 At first the wheels do not turn at all. Miss 
 N. S., who appeared bright and early one 
 Monday morning, is very pleasant and 
 equally nervous. She had not opened any 
 of the letters for fear of opening some which 
 should remain sealed. This showed a certain 
 amount of common sense and a dash of life's 
 experience, but to the T. B. M. it was a nui- 
 sance. After the mail was opened, there 
 came dictation. Now the T. B. M., although 
 a successful and brisk person, does not artic- 
 
78 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 ulate as he should ; therefore. Miss N. S. was 
 obliged to say "What?'* now and then, 
 which necessitated beginning the letter all 
 over again, and every one knows that an 
 interrupted letter is never as terse or as 
 effective as one when the dictator is allowed 
 to run along without interference. 
 
 Then there came the struggle with the 
 addresses, which must be secured from the 
 file, an indispensable adjunct to the oflSce of 
 which the T. B. M. knew little. It seemed 
 that Miss N. S. was used to an alphabetical 
 file, while ours was unfortunately numerical. 
 An important and large part of the morning 
 was therefore spent in mastering this detail 
 with the help of both the mail and filing 
 clerks. From the casual remarks which Miss 
 N. S. let drop from time to time as to the 
 simplicity of the alphabetical system, I 
 felt there was something in it, but, appar- 
 ently, our filing clerk took it as a personal 
 
The New Stenographer 79 
 
 reflection and consequently I let the matter 
 drop. It seemed wiser, for I did not wish to 
 lose our filing clerk, too. 
 
 Among my letters there were one or two 
 which called merely for perfunctory replies, 
 and these I passed over as was my habit 
 without dictating the specific answers, giv- 
 ing the necessary directions. In the case of 
 one, what was my consternation to find that 
 Miss N. S. with a commercial courtesy al- 
 most painful had ended the letter as fol- 
 lows — 
 
 "Thanking you in advance for past favors, 
 we beg to remain, etc." 
 
 That was the high spot in a hectic day. 
 Another eccentricity which I soon discov- 
 ered was spelling. It is curious how the 
 habit of dependence upon others becomes 
 almost incurable. I am not strong myself in 
 spelling, but as I rarely wrote in longhand it 
 did not matter in the office and Miss P. S. 
 
80 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 seldom made a mistake. With my new sec- 
 retary the basket of letters disclosed a won- 
 derful assortment of misspellings and a total 
 lack of punctuation. I grew nervous. Was 
 "believe" "ie" or "ei"? Should it be 
 "would" or would it be "should"? Was 
 my correspondent's name spelt "Reed" 
 or "Head" or "Reade" or even "Rhead"? 
 I felt limp and discouraged when I arrived 
 home, not only on account of Miss N. S., but 
 because of my own lapses. Was I much of a 
 fellow after all if the simplest venture of the 
 office could not go on because of the depar- 
 ture of my secretary? Would n't it go better 
 if I had left and she had remained? I messed 
 up my brain with such stuff as this until it 
 was time to go to bed and then thrashed 
 about on the same theme for an hour. 
 
 The next day a new set of circumstances 
 provided the setting for my leading lady. 
 I had explained that when answering tele* 
 
The New Stenographer 81 
 
 phone calls she should ascertain the name 
 of the person calling and then let me know 
 who was on the wire. Early in the morn- 
 ing, while I was immersed with my mail, 
 she reported that a "Mr. Stearns" was on 
 the line and wished to speak to me pri- 
 vately. Now as a rule unknown men who 
 wish to consult in private come under two 
 headings — insurance agents and persons 
 asking for charity. Being absorbed in a let- 
 ter, I replied carelessly that I was busy in 
 a conference and she repeated the message. 
 At lunch I found that the Stearns of the 
 telephone was my stock-broker and friend. 
 Kerns, who had a tip which I was too late 
 now to take. 
 
 When it came to the intricacies of my 
 personal accounts, she broke down and cried. 
 If she had not done so I should have fired 
 her, but, of course male-like, I had not the 
 heart to do it on the spot, and instead com- 
 
82 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 pleted my own account and remained in town 
 for dinner as the result, later attending one 
 of those musical pieces of bric-a-brac com- 
 monly considered as balm to the T. B. M., 
 but which seemed to me to savor of the vin- 
 tage of the early nineties. 
 
 And so it went for a week or two. Miss 
 N. S. mastered the file and consulted the 
 pocket dictionary which I had presented to 
 her the first week. The spelling was better, 
 but in her anxiety on this score she devel- 
 oped a new mania for leaving out words. 
 For instance, in a long letter to our London 
 house I found the following: 
 
 "In regard to the Great Northern Lights, 
 there is every evidence that the new issue 
 (First Mortgage Stinking Fund)," etc. 
 
 It is probably needless to point out that 
 the "Northern Lights" referred to is "The 
 Great Northern Power and Light Corpora- 
 tion," and that "Sinking" should have re- 
 placed the more objectionable word. 
 
The New Stenographer 83 
 
 At about this time her appearance began 
 to get on my nerves. I had made up my 
 mind beforehand not to allow my personal 
 prejudices to have anything to do with the 
 choice of a secretary. Neither age, beauty, 
 nor the question of dress was to be consid- 
 ered. That was not my business. But I 
 could not wholly escape. I could stand her 
 hair. It had that bushy appearance at the 
 ears that I detest, but still they nearly all do 
 it. But the perfume was unendurable. I 
 cannot tell you whether it was "Mary Gar- 
 den" or "Susan B. Anthony," but I can 
 smell it to this day. Along with most men 
 of my type, I felt exceedingly reluctant to 
 mention the subject; in fact, I could not 
 bring myself to do it. Instead I kept com- 
 plaining of the heat and opening the win- 
 dows. I also spoke of the fragrance of a 
 cigarette, and as a matter of fact, I smoked 
 a good deal more than was good for me. 
 
84 The Reflections of a T.B.M. 
 
 Finally an inspiration came to me. I went 
 and had a haircut and then bathed my head 
 in bay rum and returned reeking to the 
 office. 
 
 "You'll have to excuse me, Miss N. S.," 
 I remarked, as apologetically as possible. 
 "The barber, by mistake, put bay rum on 
 my head. I was reading the paper at the 
 time and it was too late to stop him. I hope 
 you won't mind; it shall never happen 
 again." All falsehoods and all perfect rot, 
 but I believe the thing got through to her 
 brain, for I did not notice the perfume as 
 much after that. 
 
 In short, the life of a T. B. M. and his sec- 
 retary is an intimate affair, and impersonal 
 as may be the relationship it never conceals 
 the eccentricities of each from the other. 
 The T. B. M. is either spoiled or tortured. 
 The secretary is — well, she must confess 
 her own symptoms. Her loss is one of the 
 
The New Stenographer 85 
 
 chief trials of the T. B. M., just as her going 
 is in an egotistic sense a business triumph 
 for her. But then, what 's a secretary or two 
 when compared with taking stock? 
 
A NEAR-FLAPPER 
 
A NEAR-FLAPPER 
 
 We were having a children's party. ' It 
 seemed to me as if we or some one near akin 
 was always having a children's party. I had 
 that feeling, so common to the T. B. M., so 
 disloyal, and yet unintentionally so, that I 
 should prefer going anywhere but home. 
 Yet home I went, drawn irresistibly by a 
 New England conscience and that parting 
 word from my wife that I was expected, and, 
 "Please bring some chocolate cigarettes." 
 
 I had the chocolate cigarettes in my 
 pocket, and as 1 hurried along the incongru- 
 ousness grew upon me. Why cigarettes ! — 
 even if they were chocolate; for the party 
 was for my younger daughter, aged twelve, 
 and the party was exclusively feminine. 
 
 "Is this the way to begin?" I pondered. 
 "If so, there is only one end. But even if 
 
90 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 there is only one end, what of it? Cigarettes 
 are smoked by girls; not by all, to be sure. 
 Will they smoke less if they do not see smok- 
 ing at the age of twelve, or not? Will choco- 
 late cigarettes lead more promptly to the 
 real thing?" I gave it up and started to 
 unlock the front door, when it suddenly 
 opened and a raging mob of "near-flappers" 
 with bobbed curls a-flying and spindly black 
 legs gyrating below a mass of fluffy ruffles 
 swarmed upon me, headed by Mary-Bird, 
 my daughter, whose voice rose above the din. 
 
 "D'jer get thum?" — "Where are they?" 
 — "Quit it. Peg!" — (this to an associate 
 who appeared equally interested). 
 
 I brought forth the package as the easiest 
 method of assuaging their curiosity, and 
 with a "Gee! Thanks, Pa!" Mary dashed 
 off, carrying the cigarettes much as a center 
 rush in football carries the pigskin from an 
 out-of-bounds play. 
 
A Near-Flapper 91 
 
 My mind being still focused on the larger 
 aspects of the case, I continued to observe. 
 
 "Gee! aren't they swell!" remarked one 
 little lady, the daughter of a prominent 
 banker, whose wife had contributed several 
 articles to well-known magazines during the 
 past year or two. 
 
 "You bet!" remarked another diminutive 
 siren. "They look just like the kind my 
 father smokes." 
 
 "My mother's got some in a silver box at 
 home, but they're smaller!" exclaimed a 
 cunning little tot of the quiet, inquiring vari- 
 ety. I knew the species and could picture 
 her at twenty, knowing it all and never giv- 
 ing it away. 
 
 " They 're simply corking ! " rioted a buxom 
 blonde who had outgrown everything she 
 had on and was destined to continue her 
 course if not restrained from sweets. 
 
 Then came a measure of silence as these 
 
92 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 maidens, culled from society's choicest clois- 
 ters, imitated their elders and pretended to 
 puff their cigarettes. 
 
 "You see," said my wife, coming up and 
 placing her arm in mine, "Mary-Bird is no 
 worse than the rest." 
 
 "There speaks the guilty mind," I replied, 
 smiling. "Who said she was?" 
 
 "Well, you always say she talks like a — 
 what is it — gutter-snipe, "i 
 
 "Well, my dear," I inquired innocently, 
 "what does she talk like?" 
 
 "I don't know; like the boys, I suppose," 
 replied Sue. "I don't know why it is, but all 
 these girls seem to have a passion for doing 
 just what the boys do. They call each other 
 by their last names. They play football and 
 wear their bloomers upon all possible occa- 
 sions. Their hands are scrubby, and unless 
 watched by some one each and every little 
 tot would develop into a rowdy with no 
 
A Near-Flapper 93 
 
 manners, but *aU class/ as Mary -Bird would 
 say." 
 
 "Well, who's to blame?" I inquired. 
 
 "It's just the times," sighed my wife. 
 
 "I think, then, we had better put the 
 clocks back a little farther," I replied, 
 straightening my waistcoat as I always do 
 when I think I have made a hit. 
 
 In the evening, after the house had re- 
 sumed its normal appearance and quiet had 
 come with the passing of Mary-Bird, or as 
 her friends now call her. Magpie, to the up- 
 per regions, I foolishly took up the subject 
 of the children. It was foolish because we 
 were both tired and the evening after a chil- 
 dren's party is not the time to discuss pol- 
 icies. However, I reverted to the cigarettes 
 because they offered a fair target. 
 
 "It is not that I am a prig or old-fash- 
 ioned," 1 began; "you know that as well as 
 I; nor do I care much about this smoking 
 
94 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 business in itself; but what bothers me is the 
 way you blame present conditions on the 
 times.'* (Here I began to climb one of my 
 hobby-horses.) "It's all very well to blame 
 the times, but the times don't do anything. 
 It is the people who act. You and I, and 
 parents in general and particular, are so 
 stupidly easy-going that we allow our young- 
 sters to act pretty much as they please. 
 They who are too young actually set the 
 standards, and we who are too weak to over- 
 rule say it is the trend of the times." 
 
 Being now well launched, I proceeded out 
 to sea. 
 
 "The fact is," I continued, "we tell our 
 children precisely what they should and 
 should not do until they have arrived at the 
 age when they need it most, and then we 
 slink away from our responsibilities and 
 excuse it by saying it is the times. This 
 slang, this movie business — simply rotten. 
 
A Near-Flapper 95 
 
 I call it." (Here my wife smiled.) "Yes, you 
 see I get the habit too. Then comes this 
 dancing fad, pagan gyrations, negro music, 
 double hug. The children are perfectly inno- 
 cent, but we are not, and Old Father Time is 
 named as chaperon. It's ridiculous." 
 
 This last, or perhaps it was a dropped 
 stitch in the sweater my wife was knitting, 
 gave the first opening. 
 
 "Can I change all this?" she said, too 
 sweetly to deceive me. " Don't I do anything 
 for the children?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed, you do; we all do. I am 
 glad you put it that way," I replied. "We 
 do altogether too much for them and we say 
 too little. They are completely spoilt by the 
 way parents plan, fetch, and carry for them. 
 The whole summer is laid out ready-made 
 for their enjoyment. Racing with skilled 
 boatmen instead of bitter experience. Pic- 
 nics with food prepared by mothers instead 
 
96 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 of by themselves. Tutors to do the chores as 
 well as to teach. The whole day is planned 
 for, hour by hour, without giving them an 
 opportunity to develop their own resources. 
 In the winter it is more or less the same, as 
 the schools arrange for games, outings, mu- 
 sic, and at times even theaters. 
 
 "But there is no time or effort made to 
 put a boy or a girl on his or her own until 
 they are ready for college, and then the 
 parent with a comfortable bank account 
 sends his offspring out West for a year, or, in 
 the case of a daughter, to Europe, to gain 
 just that independence and poise which 
 could have been secured at home with less 
 expense and with common enjoyment and 
 understanding if those same children had 
 been left more to themselves." 
 
 "It seems to me, my dear, that you have 
 convicted yourself," put in my wife; "first, 
 you say we ought to do more for our kiddies 
 and then you say we do too much." 
 
A Near-Flapper 97 
 
 "What I mean is that we do too much for 
 their enjoyment at the expense of their ini- 
 tiative, and too Httle bringing up at the 
 expense of their manners while they are in 
 the formative period. So that the new gen- 
 eration — not all, but many of them — will 
 be without resources except for a certain 
 facility at games and without the fine tradi- 
 tions of good breeding which mark the men 
 and women we both admire. 
 
 "These boys and girls are of just as good 
 stock, but they are coming to the front at a 
 time when rigid notions of what is polite and 
 thoughtful are considered old-fashioned, and 
 the laxity in manners is shown in the casual 
 way in which the children wear their clothes, 
 leave their rooms, throw their bicycles on 
 the pavement, and eat their meals. What we 
 need is a little of the old-fashioned martinet 
 to bring precision and responsibility to these 
 little joy-riders through life." 
 
98 The Reflections of a T.B.M. - 
 
 "Well, my dear," remarked my wife, fold- 
 ing up her knitting, "I agree with every- 
 thing you say. I do all I can, and I think 
 that just now is a good time to go to bed." 
 
 And thus endeth, as usual, the T. B. M.'s 
 sermon. 
 
THE CHIEF OPERATOR 
 
THE CHIEF OPERATOR 
 
 Every so often in the world's history, there 
 has come a catastrophe so great as to over- 
 whelm mankind. The Deluge early gave 
 vogue to this sort of thing, Vesuvius per- 
 formed a rather neat trick, and the London 
 Plague is not forgotten. 
 
 For the T. B. M. the telephone strike had 
 much the same effect. It is true that no 
 lives were sacrificed, but think of the time 
 lost forever! And think of the potential busi- 
 ness energy and the latent possibilities for 
 " deals " which never materialized ! That was 
 what the T. B. M. did think of during those 
 trying days. His mood was accentuated by 
 a slight bilious attack which gave point to 
 every ominous headline indicating no relief 
 in the situation. 
 
 As a matter of fact, the T. B. M.'s occupa- 
 
102 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 tion and very existence depended upon the 
 telephone. His cHents (he preferred that 
 word to customers) were in the habit of 
 transacting their affairs very generally over 
 the telephone, and consequently the office 
 became a morgue of baleful omen, too ut- 
 terly depressing to be suffered. Goaded by 
 this mental torture, the T. B. M. was deter- 
 mined to see what could be done in the way 
 of self-preservation, a very natural and in- 
 stinctive action. He determined to go to 
 headquarters, and see for himseff just how 
 matters stood. 
 
 This visit to the Exchange was only ac- 
 complished by skillful and surreptitious ref- 
 erences to his friend the Vice-President, 
 and he breathed a prayer for forgiveness and 
 albeit protection from discovery in using the 
 great man's name. * 
 
 Arriving finally at the operators* room, 
 the T. B. M. was vastly surprised to find a 
 
The Chief Operator 103 
 
 number of girls working. The place seemed 
 actually busy, although it was quite evident 
 that only a baker's dozen of the hundred op- 
 erators were actually at their posts. There 
 was a hum and a continual volley of clicks 
 which proved that some patrons were being 
 served. He became hopeful of results. If 
 others, why not he himself, here, Johnny-on- 
 the-Spot? 
 
 At a desk in the center of the room sat a 
 young woman of perhaps over-sturdy but 
 not unpleasing appearance, a person of de- 
 liberate movement and a certain dignity of 
 carriage. She seemed to dominate the room 
 in a quiet but effective manner which struck 
 the T. B. M. as having "some class" in a 
 time like this. 
 
 Approaching with that unmistakable strut 
 of self -consciousness which the male of the 
 species invariably adopts when desiring to 
 make a complete conquest at first sight. 
 
104 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 the T. B. M. uncovered his shining bald 
 head and uttered a pleasing if somewhat 
 hackneyed "Good-morning." The young 
 woman was as deliberate in her reply as she 
 was in her actions. 
 
 After answering several calls with an ap- 
 pearance of utter indifference, she turned 
 upon our adventurer a pair of blue eyes such 
 as he had rarely seen equaled on either side 
 of the footlights, and said, in the same mat- 
 ter-of-fact tone which she had used when ad- 
 dressing the instrument, "What?" 
 
 This was bad business. To be obliged to 
 repeat a vacuous " Good-morning " was not 
 on the cards, and therefore our hero pro- 
 ceeded into action with remarkable agility 
 for a T. B. M. 
 
 "Look here, I'm in a beastly mess all on 
 account of this strike, you know," he ex- 
 ploded, tiny beads of moisture gathering on 
 his shining brow. "This is an emergency 
 
The Chief Operator 105 
 
 and all that sort of thing. Sorry to bother 
 you, and I'm afraid it's against instructions 
 and all the red tape I expect is about the 
 place; but really, don't you suppose you 
 could help me?" 
 
 The power here gave out, and in the in- 
 terval the blue eyes focused, the eyebrows 
 arched, the expression changed to one of 
 concern, and a voice spoke: 
 
 "What is the nature of the emergency?" 
 
 It was a pleasant voice, but not a cul- 
 tured one. The enunciation was of the 
 made-to-order type which left one with the 
 suspicion that "Aw, g'wan, you're kiddin' 
 me," would have sounded more natural 
 from the same vocal chords. But the effect 
 was kindly and colored the reply; for our 
 T. B. M. found himself adopting a slightly 
 different tone. 
 
 "Business — money — a deal. You un- 
 derstand Miss — er — Miss?" 
 
106 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Clancy," suggested the operator. 
 
 "Miss Clancy. Do you know of any 
 greater emergency during business hours 
 than that?" 
 
 This seemed to break the spell, for the 
 eyes, the mouth, and even the nose changed 
 their proportions, and Miss Clancy broke 
 into a hearty laugh which astonished those 
 underlings about her who were purring their 
 replies into space much as a bee whispers to 
 its flowers. 
 
 "Well, how did they let such a live wire 
 as you come in through that door without 
 insulation, I'd like to know? Who said you 
 could come in here breaking all the rules of 
 the game?" 
 
 The T. B. M. became apologetic at once 
 and explained. At the name of the Vice- 
 President, Miss Clancy pricked up her ears. 
 
 "Did he give you a pass?" she asked, 
 cocking her head on one side. 
 
The Chief Operator 107 
 
 "He did not," the T. B. M. admitted. 
 "He does not know I'm here. You won't 
 run and tell him, will you?" 
 
 Her reply was cut short by a call on the 
 wire. 
 
 "What is the nature of the emergency?" 
 The tone was again the drab matter-of-fact 
 intonation we always associate with tele- 
 phone operators. 
 
 "Accident where?" were the next words, 
 vibrant with a new attention. 
 
 "Yes, corner of Eighteenth and Main 
 Streets. Stay on the wire till I get the hospi- 
 tal. I '11 report at once." 
 
 Then and there took place a remarkable 
 demonstration of accuracy. Within an in- 
 credibly short time the city's emergency and 
 several private hospitals were notified of a 
 bad collision at the corner of Eighteenth and 
 Main Streets, and ambulances were directed 
 to the proper place without a wasted word 
 
108 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 and with calm accuracy; after which the 
 blue eyes were once more directed at the 
 T. B. M., and with a mischievous twinkle 
 behind them. 
 
 "Will I tell? Say, do I look as if I had 
 time to go to the Vice-President and tell him 
 I had a caller? '* ; 
 
 "No, of course not; I was wrong, any- 
 way," the T. B. M. hastened to admit. 
 "This message you have just put through 
 shows me I was entirely wrong. My emer- 
 gency is not like that. I ought not to have 
 asked. I had better just trot along back and 
 wait for things to clear up." 
 
 Putting on his hat, the T. B. M. started 
 to go, when his new-found friend stopped 
 him. 
 
 "Say, hold on a minute. Just what did 
 you want, anyway?" 
 
 "Two calls to outlying districts that I 
 feel are urgent." 
 
The Chief Operator 109 
 
 She looked at him steadily for a moment, 
 and then said, "Say, I'll make a trade with 
 you. I won't tell the Vice-President about 
 you, if you don't tell him about me. Num- 
 ber, please .f^" This last with a twinkle. 
 
 The T. B. M. had those two numbers in 
 less than no time, and as a result made a 
 turn well worth the effort. When he had 
 finished. Miss Clancy asked if that was all. 
 
 "Well," he replied, "I would like to tele- 
 phone home to say that I am coming out to 
 lunch and advise the killing of the fatted 
 
 calf and all that. The number is " 
 
 Here he mentioned the suburb. 
 
 At this request Miss Clancy pondered. "I 
 don't believe that exchange will put through 
 a message.** 
 
 "We might try * Emergency' there," ven- 
 tured the T. B. M. timidly. 
 
 "I won't, but you can," retorted Miss 
 Clancy. "I'll give you the operator and 
 
110 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 see whether she is as easy a mark as I 
 am." 
 
 As the T. B. M. said "Hello," and lis- 
 tened for the reply, what was his amazement 
 to hear the familiar voice of his wife asking 
 sweetly the nature of the emergency. 
 
 "Why, Sue, dear, it is n't any emergency 
 at all. It's just me, but what are you do- 
 ing?" he exclaimed. 
 
 "Helping out at the telephone exchange," 
 came the reply. "But what made you tele- 
 phone, and how could you?" 
 
 "Just to let you know that I was coming 
 out to lunch — I '11 tell the rest later," and 
 rang off. 
 
 "Say, what sort of a kid are you, any- 
 way?" inquired Miss Clancy, with a genu- 
 ine curiosity she could not conceal. "'Sue, 
 dear,' is a pretty cozy way to start. I'll be 
 thinking of telling the Vice-President after 
 all." 
 
The Chief Operator 111 
 
 "You won't believe it, I suppose, but that 
 was my wife," the T. B. M. hastened to ex- 
 plain, much to Miss Clancy's interest. 
 
 "She must be an honest-to-goodness 
 peach to go in as a strike-breaker just to 
 help along. I'm mighty glad I was able to 
 fix you up on her account, and please tell her 
 so from me." 
 
 Miss Clancy was immediately reassured 
 on this point. 
 
 A few days later "Chief Operator" re- 
 ceived a large bunch of violets with a card 
 upon which appeared the following inscrip- 
 tion: 
 
 "Please do not tell the Vice-President 
 who sent this." The initials which appeared 
 were the T. B. M.'s. 
 
THE ATHLETIC GIRL 
 
THE ATHLETIC GIRL 
 
 It was the same young girl I had seen almost 
 daily for at least eight years, and yet I had 
 never known who she was or even what her 
 name might be. On my daily walk down- 
 town to the office, she had passed me coming 
 uptown to school. I did not know whether 
 she lived in one of the many houses which 
 border the business district (for, as in all 
 American cities, business is invading our 
 residential quarters with alarming rapid- 
 ity), or whether she was coming from a 
 suburb. 
 
 In either case she was a methodical little 
 puss, for I invariably met her within a block 
 or so of the same point each day, and as we 
 passed I never failed to notice her — T. B. M. 
 that I am, immersed in the problems of how 
 to make four times four net me upwards of 
 
116 The R.eflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 seventeen, just to win out over an old world 
 which still clings to the multiplication table 
 even in these days of tax specialists. 
 
 My little unknown friend grew astonish- 
 ingly with the years. At first she was a slip 
 of a thing, with pigtails and skirts as short as 
 those one sees on the street to-day. Incred- 
 ibly, it seemed to me, she shot up and broad- 
 ened into symmetrical girlhood, but always 
 unmistakable with a swinging gait, boyish, 
 athletic, and vigorous. She was never in a 
 hurry, but she was invariably pushing on. 
 There was a drive to her walk which even as 
 a small girl I noticed in its similarity to some 
 engine-driven vehicle. One felt that there 
 was force behind it which pervaded her 
 whole being, and I often wondered what 
 would happen to the man who would some 
 day step in her path. 
 
 Her clothes were fashioned by some one 
 akin in spirit to her own breezy nature. She 
 
The Athletic Girl 117 
 
 always wore loose pretty garments ; even her 
 shoes were chosen to give full play to her 
 agile feet. Rough homespun suits, a Tarle- 
 ton plaid, or a serge skirt, appearing beneath 
 an English ulster effect in winter, were all 
 that I remember just now, which after all, 
 you will admit, is something for a T. B. M. 
 But it was all quite easy because of the real 
 individuality of my unknown companion of 
 the pavements. A glance at her fresh, ruddy 
 face, which never failed to bear an expres- 
 sion of expectancy, of pleasurable anticipa- 
 tion, was a tonic in itself. I suppose she 
 would be called pretty. Certainly she was 
 not beautiful, and I fancy she cared not one 
 straw for beauty in the common acceptance 
 of the term; but with her figure, which was 
 quite perfect, with her dark, deep coloring, 
 and light, tawny hair, she was strikingly 
 attractive, and I missed her daily passing a 
 year or more ago, when for some mysterious 
 
118 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 reason she no longer crossed my path. I 
 suspected that she had completed her edu- 
 cation so far as school is concerned. 
 
 Like all T .B. M.s I am a golfer. That does 
 not imply that I play golf, but I play at it, 
 and I assiduously observe true form, having 
 taken lessons on the links, in the athletic 
 stores, on sundry roofs, and in front of my 
 house at the seashore, where I collect pine 
 cones and drive them victoriously into the 
 sea some few yards in front of me. This 
 craze for form has led me of late to follow 
 the professional and other matches about 
 the various golf links with which our sub- 
 urbs are plentifully supplied. This after- 
 noon I had set aside to see the women's 
 championship match between the East and 
 West, and although there were a number of 
 important matters at the oflSce I felt that 
 health was after all the most important 
 thing, and, therefore, here I was at the first 
 
The Athletic Girl 119 
 
 tee, and there she was defending her title to 
 golf supremacy — the Miss X, my little 
 schoolgirl still the same! How incredible 
 that she should have acquired in her short 
 life what I with all my hours of patient prac- 
 tice could never accomplish. 
 
 I watched her swinging over the course 
 with that driving walk which was but the 
 accompaniment of an athletic poise which 
 showed in every movement of the game, 
 and that expectant, compelling expression, 
 charming and convincing of what character 
 lay behind. Of course she won, and of course 
 I met her after the game was over. In fact, 
 I met her whole family, and I saw to it that 
 my family met hers, and now I plan to watch 
 her development in other branches of sport, 
 for she has the poise, the eye, the figure, and 
 the build of an athlete. I suspect that she 
 deplores her sex, but in these days what 
 matter? What more hopeful sign of our 
 
120 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 future race than this extension of the manly 
 sports to our women? If they will play the 
 game as it is intended that sport should be 
 played, so much the better for all of us. 
 
THE AUTHORESS 
 
THE AUTHORESS 
 Now and then, on my way uptown, I drop 
 in to see my old friend Park and try to per- 
 suade him to come along with me for a walk 
 or a quiet game of billiards at the club before 
 dinner. Occasionally he falls in with my 
 plans, but generally not. Park is a publisher, 
 and although he won't admit it to me, I con- 
 sider him a T. B. M. 
 
 His contention is that his business is not 
 only his business, but his hobby as well, and 
 for that reason he is at it night and day. I 
 never saw such an enthusiast for work, and 
 yet upon occasions life may drag along with 
 him as with the rest of us. 
 
 This particular afternoon in April was 
 uncommonly fine. The air still held the 
 crispness of winter, but with the light glint- 
 ing over the house-tops on the hill and the 
 
124 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 fresh earth smell of April in the air one felt 
 the spring and rejoiced in the liberty from 
 business confinement, and so I thought of 
 Park and determined to pry him away. 
 
 Being well known in the office and bent 
 full upon my own idea, I walked past the 
 various supernumeraries and found myself 
 in Park's room before I discovered that he 
 was in conference with a lady. 
 
 "Sorry; I didn't know that you were 
 busy," I muttered, starting to withdraw. 
 
 "Don't go," replied Park, almost eagerly 
 for him. "Let me present you to Miss 
 Bashford. You know^of Miss Bashford, of 
 course." 
 
 "Of course," I replied, bowing. "I am 
 delighted to have the pleasure of meeting a 
 real author. It is a rare pleasure for me, for I 
 am not as fortunate as my friend Park here, 
 whose business I have always felt was what 
 his friends would consider a literary spree." 
 
The Authoress 125 
 
 Park shot me a glance which was easy to 
 translate into "You blamed idiot," and I 
 cudgeled my brain to recall just what Miss 
 Bashford had written, but in vain. 
 
 "And so you think literature is a spree?" 
 inquired Miss Bashford. 
 
 "Well, perhaps not the type of spree 
 which is best defined as orgy," I replied, 
 getting in deeper, "but naturally a business 
 man looks upon books as a pastime, for he 
 never has recourse to them except in his 
 hours of recreation." 
 
 "Oh, I see," she murmured. "You only 
 read for recreation?" 
 
 "1 cannot say I read very much. Now 
 and then 1 like a rattling good yarn like that 
 cowboy yarn you gave me last week," I said, 
 turning to Park, who was now scowling and 
 evidently regretting that he had asked me to 
 remain. 
 
 "1 hardly call a cowboy story literature," 
 
126 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 retorted Miss Bashford, "but I suppose it is 
 if Mr. Park published it." 
 
 "You must admit, Miss BasMord, that a 
 publisher must prepare his literary menus 
 with an eye to every taste, even that of our 
 friend here, the T. B. M., who reflects, I am 
 sorry to say, the average demand of our 
 public to-day. It is he, who, along with 
 thousands of other T. B. M.s, creates the 
 *big seller.' Can't you persuade him other- 
 wise while I step out for a moment? There 
 is some one waiting for me about the Lord 
 knows what." 
 
 With that he left me alone with Miss Bash- 
 ford. A wise trick I thought to myself. 
 What the deuce did Miss Bashford write, 
 anyway? — not cowboys or khaki, nor could 
 I persuade myself that she had mastered the 
 subtleties of humor or the pathos of love in 
 distress. No, she could not be a novelist, or 
 else she was a damned bad one. Mustering 
 
; The Authoress 127 
 
 up my courage, I settled back in my chair 
 and said with an assumption of comfort 
 which I did not feel: 
 
 "Well, here we are. You write and I read. 
 We have that in common." 
 
 "Ah, but you do not read what I write, 
 do you?" Miss Bashford smiled as she 
 said this, which broke the strength of the 
 blow. 
 
 "N-no, I don't suppose 1 do," I stam- 
 mered; "but then you really don't write for 
 me to read, do you? That is to say, after 
 what I said about cowboys you would prefer 
 to write for some one who reads — who reads 
 for a better object than to while away an 
 evening." 
 
 "I write for those who are searching for 
 Beauty in Life, not necessarily for the soul, 
 although 1 believe that to attune nature to 
 life there must be kinship between the soul 
 and the intellect. ' But I write to sound the 
 
128 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 rhythm of Hfe and to portray thought — if 
 you know what I mean." 
 
 Unfortunately, I did not, and I was men- 
 tally gasping in my attempt to grope for an 
 answer. 
 
 "It's all very well to portray thought," I 
 replied. "That's what the Cubists wanted 
 to do, was n't it? — or was it the Futurists? 
 In any event they portrayed something that 
 nobody could understand without a chart. 
 Now, Miss Bashford, if you portray a 
 thought, how do you do it without giving 
 the trick away? — I mean without saying in 
 so many words that it is a thought." 
 
 "It is very simple. You must have read 
 allegories in your youthful days and your 
 mother or your nurse pointed out to you the 
 moral of the tale. In a way that is what my 
 poetry is, only the allegory is not a fairy 
 story, nor is there a moral. There is in its 
 place a thought which has taken on form 
 
The Authoress 129 
 
 througli the medium of the rhythmic words." 
 
 *'It must be very difficult," I admitted. 
 
 " It is, because you see, not only must the 
 poem reflect the thought perfectly, but the 
 rhythm must be in harmony with the spirit 
 of the thought." 
 
 "H'm," I remarked. "There are a good 
 many thoughts in this old world of ours and 
 precious little harmony to some of them 
 from what I have observed." 
 
 "Yes, that is true," continued Miss Bash- 
 ford, who never lifted her voice above a low 
 murmur. "But rhythm, harmony, disso- 
 nance might all be classified under what I call 
 harmony. The harmony which would ac- 
 company an unpleasant or wicked thought 
 would naturally be a jangle of discord which 
 in verse would be expressed in unmetrical 
 stanzas where the choice of words them- 
 selves would lend color to the sound." 
 
 Her voice trailed off into a lower murmur 
 
130 The Reflections of a T. B. M. ' 
 
 as I lost all sense of what she was driving at. 
 I simply watched her spellbound as she 
 dived into the recesses of her agile brain and 
 brought forth bit by bit her fetish, for now I 
 knew her to be so entirely absorbed by her 
 own obsession that it was idle either to try 
 to stem the current of her thought or to 
 counter by such feeble criticism as I could 
 muster. 
 
 Miss Bashford was petite, almost pretty, 
 and as she sat there perched upon an office 
 chair, fashionably dressed, girlish in figure, 
 animated in a repressed sense of the word, 
 I wondered at a Fate which had clouded her 
 youth with such a heavy consciousness of 
 intellect, for with all her earnestness and 
 conviction, I could not help feeling that 
 there was a self -consciousness, almost a pose, 
 to the whole thing. 
 
 Fortunately, before I was called upon to 
 say more. Park returned and Miss Bashford 
 
The Authoress 131 
 
 left, having deposited a large, bulky manila 
 envelope upon my friend's desk. 
 
 *' Yes, we will write you within a week," I 
 heard him say to her at the door. " Oh, no, it 
 will be kept in our vault except at such times 
 as it is in the hands of our readers. You may 
 be sure that it will have a sympathetic read- 
 ing. Good-bye." 
 
 "Whew!" — returning to his desk Park 
 flopped into his chair. 
 
 " I thought you told me your business was 
 a hobby, Park," I observed. 
 
 "Did 1? Well, well, fishing is yours, is n't 
 it?" 
 
 "You know it is," 1 replied. 
 
 "How much fun did you have when the 
 canoe upset in the upper Cascopedia last 
 spring and you trailed back to the camp 
 nearly frozen?" 
 
 "All right, quits! — and get your hat and 
 coat," I returned, laughing and jabbing him 
 
132 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 with my cane. "But who is this paragon of 
 versical virtue?" 
 
 "Miss Bashford? Oh, she's one of these 
 moderns, who, if she perseveres, will get 
 there simply because she has one fixed idea 
 of a rather novel sort with unlimited nerve 
 and — other resources," remarked Park, 
 somewhat vaguely. 
 
 ,"0h," I said. "And does she pay the 
 public to read?" 
 
 Park roared at this. "They dorCt read 
 them!" he continued; "that is, not yet. In 
 publishing we do a good deal of living in 
 hope. To provide shoe-leather and the other 
 things necessary to the present, we bring out 
 a few cowboy books. Come along, it's time 
 for that game of billiards. Shall it be cow- 
 boy?" said Park with a smile. 
 
THE NEW VOTER 
 
THE NEW VOTER 
 "What do you think of the election, Neal?" 
 1 inquired of my friend as we walked down- 
 town the morning after the State election. 
 
 "Fine, simply splendid, a walk-over for 
 the whole ticket. Could it be better .f*" 
 
 "No," I replied, "it couldn't, and our 
 women apparently did a good job." 
 
 "I should say they did," he continued, 
 bubbling. "They took no party lines as far 
 as I can see — just voted for the right man. 
 You will find their hearts are in the right 
 place." 
 
 "Yes, I know," I answered musingly; 
 "that's just it. Their hearts are all right; 
 what bothers me sometimes is their heads. 
 In this election sentiment, common sense 
 and the welfare of the community were all 
 on one side, with nothing but a party ma- 
 
136 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 chine and the unknown quantities of Labor 
 and Religion on the other. Personally I 
 don't know much about underground pol- 
 itics, but I suspect that Labor and Religion 
 do not control as many votes as we are often 
 led to expect." 
 
 "Well, what's that all got to do with the 
 woman vote?" asked my friend. 
 
 "Just this. Most women will listen to 
 what some man has to say about the vote. 
 Tradition is strong in women. They will 
 very often choose the ticket their fathers, 
 brothers, or husbands vote, and nearly al- 
 ways the party to which their sweethearts 
 belong." 
 
 "Maybe you're right as to fathers and 
 sweethearts, but I'll bet a box of Belindas 
 that wives and husbands will be on opposite 
 sides of the fence more often than not," 
 remarked Neal sagely. 
 
 "The thing simmers down to this," he 
 
The New Voter 137 
 
 continued. "The women have an ideal. 
 Sometimes it may be one man, then it is 
 spelt idolf but at others it is a cause, a theory, 
 or what-not. Pure milk, clean streets, better 
 air, filtered water, and up jumps some four- 
 flusher with a sweet voice who wants to be 
 It and espouses one of these ideals as his 
 own. He discovers it, sings it from the ros- 
 trum, works every sort of variation on the 
 theme, with no more belief in it than a pat- 
 ent-medicine vender." 
 
 "I know," I interjected, wanting to talk; 
 but my friend continued, disregarding me: 
 
 "That sort of chap will lead them every 
 time. You will find your own orations at 
 home falling upon deaf ears. He may be a 
 jailbird. If so, your wife will make him out 
 a martyr. He may have been previously 
 elected to some high office where he failed. 
 She will tell you it was because he did not 
 have a chance, and so it will go." 
 
138 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 There was no further chance to talk, as 
 we had reached his ofl&ce, where I left him. 
 
 Returning that evening rather earlier than 
 usual, I found a group of my wife's friends 
 talking over the election. That they were 
 pleased with the result was of course ap- 
 parent. The conversation had passed be- 
 yond that point. The matter in hand was to 
 present to our new Governor a programme 
 of what I should call Betterfication of the 
 State. These ladies were actually drawing 
 up a list of their combined ideals of govern- 
 mental improvements to submit at the 
 proper time. 
 
 As my friend had remarked, pure milk 
 was on the list. So was a plea for better 
 roads. One angular lady of more advanced 
 years was recommending better lighting of 
 roads in certain quarters of the city. An- 
 other was focusing her strength upon the 
 Housing Problem. In short, the housewife 
 
The New Voter 139 
 
 had her broom, a large, new broom, with 
 which to sweep the city and State clean. 
 She was regardless of what came under city 
 rule and what under State, and she had for- 
 gotten all about the Federal Government in 
 her excitement for change. 
 
 I thought to myself, what sort of fate lies 
 before these new officials with their limited 
 powers, their lobby and their laws, to say 
 nothing of their appropriations? That oft- 
 repeated and super-hackneyed term, "my 
 constituents," had now another meaning, 
 for the women's vote will be loudly heard in 
 the land, and woe be to him who does not 
 perform the superhuman act of making of 
 the world a Spotless Town. 
 
 So think I, the T. B. M. Perhaps I am 
 wrong. I know very little, at least so I infer 
 at times from the remarks of my children 
 and the expression in my wife's eyes. 
 
THE DEBUTANTE 
 
THE DEBUTANTE 
 
 In the olden time, the Seven Wise Men were 
 looked upon with veneration both for their 
 age and knowledge. Now there is no such 
 thing as real veneration, and knowledge 
 seems to be with the young rather than the 
 old. At least so I am told by the coming 
 generation, who have come with a vengeance, 
 and no class in these days come with more 
 assurance or more self-reliance than the 
 Debutantes. If we read our Thackeray, we 
 realize what tender blossoms those dear 
 young ladies really were, safe in the realm of 
 their ancestral abodes. In our vernacular 
 they were all innocent, clinging vines, help- 
 less but winsome. In those days women 
 were enshrined for the adoration of mankind. 
 In our fathers* and mothers' day there 
 was more of practical life up to the age of 
 
144 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 wooing. Simplicity and merriness were fac- 
 tors in the attraction of both sexes. The 
 piazza still had its uses; the days of husking- 
 bees had passed, but the community spirit 
 still remained, and parties and balls were 
 given and enjoyed by a company of real 
 friends, and the Debutante who received her 
 guests was a girl unspoiled and eager for 
 wholesome pleasures. 
 
 But to-day the Debutante is full mistress 
 of her powers and freer in many cases than 
 her male peers, who are still grinding away 
 at college. She is more mature than he, and 
 she knows just about as much about life as 
 he does and thinks a great deal more about 
 it than he ever imagines. She has been used 
 to motors and luxuries of every sort provided 
 by fond parents more fortunate than wise, 
 and she is not limited in her vision to the 
 town or city of her birth, but flits about 
 choosing her friends from kindred spirits. 
 
The Debutante 145 
 
 and she has fallen upon an ill time — a time 
 when prohibition has made hypocrites of 
 men and women alike, when laws are broken 
 by those we respect, and the Debutante 
 naturally argues that if some laws are bro- 
 ken, why not others? In short, she is in the 
 way of doing pretty much as she pleases and 
 finds justification in the actions of those 
 whose lives touch hers. 
 
 A few years ago, when the term "the 
 emancipation of women" was first heard in 
 the land, it applied to the outdoor move- 
 ment when girls began to take an active part 
 in sports. It was a good thing. There 
 quickly developed a proficiency in golf and 
 tennis which was surprising. Then girls 
 were included in camping expeditions, and 
 horsemanship, fishing, and sailing soon 
 brought to light the latent eflSciency of 
 many girls and women in outdoor activities. 
 From this has arisen a feeling of comrade- 
 
146 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 ship between the sexes, which never before 
 existed; but with it has come a freedom of 
 expression and the adoption of habits and 
 manners which, to say the least, would have 
 amazed those gentle creatures of Thackeray's 
 fancy. The slang of the average American 
 girl to-day would rejoice the heart of a 
 George Ade and cause Mr. Dooley to reflect 
 "wance more on the times." The cigarette- 
 maker knows his wares are enjoyed by both 
 sexes with equal relish, and Mr. Ziegfeld's 
 astounding revelations and revolutions in 
 dress have invaded the ballrooms to such an 
 extent that the musical comedies have been 
 obliged to return to nature in order to achieve 
 success. 
 
 Our Debutante is well up in all the books 
 of the type which lay hidden a generation ago, 
 and what is more she talks about them. In 
 short, she knows so much that it is the won- 
 der of the time that she really knows so little. 
 
The Debutante 147 
 
 It was at a ball that the T. B. M. first met 
 the Debutante. Sue insisted that we take in 
 certain functions in order not to become 
 archaic and to keep in trim for the children. 
 We had been in the ballroom for some little 
 time before our attention was drawn to her. 
 She had just passed us dancing cheek by 
 jowl with an athletic, good-looking chap, 
 whose expression of dignity and serious 
 contemplation admirably camouflaged what 
 must have been his inner feelings at such 
 close proximity to feminine beauty. The 
 T. B. M. did not approve of this latest fash- 
 ion in dancing. He admitted that it was 
 undoubtedly devilish good fun, but devilish, 
 and, therefore, to be avoided, and he won- 
 dered why on earth the matrons did not 
 wake up and sense the thing. 
 
 Miss Deb, it seemed, was a daughter of a 
 classmate, who insisted upon introducing 
 him and arranging for a dance. 
 
148 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Will you really dance with an old man 
 like me?" This politely and gallantly from 
 the T. B. M. 
 
 "Sure, come on," replied the delicate 
 creature, snuggling closely against him, and 
 off they went. 
 
 "Isn't this music simply peachy!" mur- 
 mured Miss Deb against his shirt bosom. 
 
 "You bet," replied the T. B. M., trying to 
 catch the lingo. 
 
 "You're not at all bad, you know; let's 
 twinkle," added Deb. So they twinkled un- 
 til interrupted by a claimant for the rest of 
 the dance. 
 
 The next time the two met was in the 
 following summer when the T. B. M. was 
 spending a week-end with his classmate at 
 the seashore. Miss Deb was playing singles 
 with the same handsome, athletic young 
 man and apparently beating him when the 
 motor brought our friend to the house. The 
 
The Debutante 149 
 
 match was a hot one, so that after it, the 
 pair in bathing-suits, which matched ad- 
 mirably in style and brevity, took a plunge 
 in the sea, and then sat upon the raft and 
 swung their legs to and fro while talldng — 
 incessantly — until my friend took the meg- 
 aphone and shouted "dinner'* to them. 
 The meal was a hurried one, for Miss Deb 
 had planned to motor ten miles to a movie 
 show, and then take in the last part of a 
 dance before bedtime. 
 
 That was a year ago. Last week, in a trim 
 blue suit and still with the same swinging gait 
 and the same seK-assurance, Miss Deb called 
 upon me at my oflSce to ask if there was any 
 vacancy in my staff which she could fill. 
 
 I, T. B. M. and Innocence itself, asked 
 what the trouble was. 
 
 " Oh, no trouble at all," she replied. " I 've 
 nothing to do, that's all, and it's getting on 
 my nerves." 
 
150 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Nothing to do!" I exclaimed; "what's 
 the matter with what you did last year?" 
 
 "Oh, well, I'm fed up with dances and 
 teas, and besides all the girls are getting 
 jobs now," she said lightly. 
 
 "You mean it's the thing to do," I haz- 
 arded. 
 
 "Quite," she replied. 
 
 "Where's our blond athlete?" I ventured. 
 
 "Married. Didn't you get a bid?" she 
 asked with utter unconcern. 
 
 "Yes." I remembered now that I had, 
 and that he had married a demure little girl 
 who lacked the lustrous qualities of my 
 visitor, but who, I suspected, had poise and 
 common sense. 
 
 "That's it," I ejaculated out loud. 
 
 "What's it?" inquired Miss Deb. 
 
 " Poise and common sense and equanimity. 
 You girls are testing the extremes of life and 
 you are losing the perspective of your careers. 
 
The Debutante 151 
 
 You lack balance and you race up and down 
 the tilt of life trying to find it. Don't go so 
 far either way, and you will find it easier to 
 keep your balance. If you can't do it alone, 
 get some one else; it sometimes balances 
 easier with two." 
 
 Miss Deb looked at me a little doubtfully, 
 and I rose. 
 
 "I guess you're busy," she murmured. 
 She shook hands and left without waiting 
 for her job. 
 
A NEIGHBOR ONCE REMOVED 
 
A NEIGHBOR ONCE REMOVED 
 
 Everybody, of course, has colds. One of our 
 neighbors who is a wag, after a prolonged 
 siege of family illness, remarked to me at the 
 club at luncheon, "In certain families there 
 is some one who has a cold all the time, and 
 in others they all have a cold some of the 
 time, but in my family we all have colds all 
 of the time." Perhaps it was the thought, or 
 perhaps my friend uncaged one of his flock 
 of family germs. At any rate, that night I 
 started in with a chill, and the next morning 
 one of my loudest colds was in full eruption. 
 I say loudest because, unfortunately, I have 
 never acquired the skill to camouflage a 
 sneeze. Every so often I would celebrate 
 the arrival of a cold with a Presidential sa- 
 lute of twenty-one — or more — guns, every 
 one of which threatened to take my head off. 
 This particular cold was poorly placed, for 
 
156 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 I had a dinner engagement which I wished 
 earnestly to keep. It was a monthly din- 
 ner of a dozen or so of my classmates, and 
 upon this particular occasion Bob Cogges- 
 hall, who had just returned from a year in 
 Serbia, was to join us, and we had planned 
 a sort of jubilee meeting which I knew would 
 be joyous. Therefore I arose and crawled to 
 the office. 
 
 "I don't see why you attempt to go in 
 town, dear," Sue said in a pleading tone. 
 
 *'I don't know why any man ever goes in 
 town these days," I replied bitterly, think- 
 ing of the "market" and the empty days of 
 the last three months, but also knowing that 
 if I did not go to the office Sue would forbid 
 the dinner, and so in I went. 
 
 As luck would have it, the cold acquired 
 speed and strength, and at lunch Freddie 
 pronounced it a magnum, and I caved in and 
 went home. Of course that ended the dinner 
 
A Neighbor Once Removed 157 
 
 for me, even without argument. There 
 might, however, have been an argument if 
 Sue had been at home, for she would have 
 said that I could not go to the dinner, and I 
 should then have attempted to prove that I 
 could. After having established that fact, I 
 should have gone on, however, to admit that 
 I was n't going. 
 
 Sue was out, which simplified the situa- 
 tion, so I put on an old coat and slippers and 
 ensconced myself in a comfortable chair be- 
 fore the fire in my library, having sought for 
 an opiate of Oppenheim stories and found it. 
 There is one comfort in a cold. It is the one 
 disease I know of where comfort and ease 
 can be appreciated and really enjoyed. One 
 can smoke, even imbibe with moderation, 
 with the sense of doing the right thing at the 
 right time; and one need not go to bed. So I 
 solaced myself with these thoughts and pre- 
 pared for a cozy afternoon. 
 
158 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 I had, however, scarcely started my book 
 when the outer door opened, bringing a draft 
 which made gooseflesh of my complexion, 
 and the next moment a velvet headpiece 
 projected itself through the open door, dis- 
 closing beneath a heavily veiled face and a 
 much-be-ulstered figure. 
 
 "Heavens! is it you?" exclaimed the face 
 and veil, y Why, what are you doing here at 
 /Az5 time of day.^" 
 
 At being thus interrogated in my own 
 house, I explained. 
 
 The veil was pushed upward, and I saw 
 the familiar features of Mrs. Wynne, one of 
 our neighbors, who was like some cousins we 
 speak of hopefully as once removed. Mrs. 
 Wynne had at one time lived on the opposite 
 side of the street, but as the state of her 
 health demanded that she spend her time in 
 the waiting-rooms of a variety of specialists, 
 she, and, I need hardly add, her husband 
 
A Neighbor Once Removed 159 
 
 and her four children, had removed to town. 
 
 "I was out here lunching with the Ben- 
 netts and thought I would drop in a moment 
 to see Sue," she explained. 
 
 "Sue is out, I am sorry to say," I replied 
 gravely, "but won't you sit down?" 
 
 "I can only stay a minute, anyway. I'm 
 awfully disappointed not to find Sue. How 
 is she.?" 
 
 Then followed one of those minutes which 
 the T. B. M. knows so well — those spun-out 
 minutes when conversation becomes inter- 
 minable, the long prayer of society, the voic- 
 ings of endless vacuities. Such minutes are 
 generally spent at the front door with the 
 door open, but on this occasion I was spared 
 the open door. 
 
 "You've got a cold. Oh, I am sorry, but 
 I can tell you just what to do." She did — 
 but I did n't do it. 
 
 Foolishly, in reply I asked her how she was. 
 
160 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Well, I hardly know," she replied, set- 
 tling back to give fuU justice to the subject. 
 "Do you know that since we moved in town 
 I think my asthma has been better. Dr. 
 Jenkins felt that it came from the fall damp- 
 ness. It was not brought on by rose-cold or 
 hay-fever, or any of those things that I 
 thought of while here, but simply by the 
 general dampness coming from the ground 
 after the sun had set. He has told me to keep 
 on the pavements, and to always be at home 
 by five in October and half -past four in No- 
 vember. It is hard to keep strictly to this 
 rule, but I do it nearly every day and I am 
 really better. Not entirely all right, you un- 
 derstand. Heavens, no! I don't suppose I 
 ever shall be — but still it is encouraging to 
 feel that you are on the right road at last!" 
 
 I hastily agreed. "You'll soon be all over 
 it, I am quite sure," I remarked soothingly. 
 
 "Perhaps, but if it's not one thing it's 
 
A Neighbor Once Removed 161 
 
 another" Mrs. Wynne replied impressively, 
 to which I bowed in appreciation. "Yes," 
 she continued, "no sooner had I ferreted out 
 the source of this asthma trouble, which, as 
 you know, has bothered my throat and nose 
 and hearing, oh, so miserably, than I had 
 the most awful shock! I was sure that it 
 was" (here she lowered her voice) ^^ heart, 
 but after an exhaustive examination by Dr. 
 Leeds (you know Dr. Leeds; he is by far 
 the most celebrated heart doctor in the city 
 — some say in this country), he said that 
 the trouble came from indigestion. Of course 
 that was a relief." 
 
 "Of course," I echoed, breathing noisily 
 through one nostril, hoping to frighten her 
 into leaving. 
 
 "But it did not mean that I should not 
 have another palpitation, so I made up my 
 mind to bant, which I did for two weeks, and 
 then I was so abjectly miserable that I went 
 
162 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 to see Dr. Hawkins, and what do you sup- 
 pose he said?" Here Mrs. Wynne sat up, 
 head up, resembhng certain canine speci- 
 mens anticipating largess in the form of a 
 cracker. 
 
 "Blest if I know," was the best I could 
 muster. 
 
 "EyesI Eyes, he said, were probably at 
 the root of the whole trouble, and I can see 
 it all. The eyes were probably affected by 
 my asthmatic trouble, and the development 
 has been slow." 
 
 "Hello, you two here!" The voice of my 
 wife never sounded sweeter as she came into 
 the room drawing off her gloves and with a 
 cool touch on my brow expressed the mes- 
 sage of sympathy for my cold and for the 
 ordeal through which I was passing. 
 
 "Why, Wynny dear, how nice of you to 
 drop in! I'm so sorry I was out," she said 
 cheerily, and I am sure truthfully. "Do 
 
A Neighbor Once Removed 163 
 
 come into the other room and tell me all 
 about yourself. We have n't met for ages." 
 And turning to me with the faintest drop of 
 an eyelid, "You poor dear, you must stay 
 right here as close to the fire as you can and 
 mother that cold. I know Mrs. Wynne will 
 excuse you." 
 
 And stay there I did, while the murmur of 
 voices told me of a repetition of the symp- 
 toms with embellishments not to be re- 
 corded in these pages. 
 
SISTER 
 
SISTER 
 
 We were sitting alone, my wife and I, over a 
 crackling fire in the library. The crisp fall 
 days had come and with them an exhilara- 
 tion in mind and body. We were in love 
 with our country, our home, and our chil- 
 dren — although an evening without the 
 latter, I [must confess, was not unwelcome. 
 
 Being a T. B. M., my slippered feet were 
 raised high upon the fender and the evening 
 paper lay half -read upon my knees. This 
 was the real thing to me, and, pulling com- 
 fortably at my pipe, I said so to Sue. 
 
 "It is comfy," she admitted. "I wonder 
 why we don't do it oftener." 
 
 And that for some reason or another set 
 me thinking of Harriet. Harriet is my sister, 
 and the exact reverse of what I choose to 
 think I am, although Sue says we have much 
 in common. 
 
168 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 "Have you seen Harriet lately?" I asked. 
 
 "No, but I don't have to see her to 
 know what she is doing. Look at this," 
 she said, spreading before me two large, 
 square, printed announcements, which had 
 evidently just arrived in the mail. One was 
 an invitation to a Charity Ball in town, 
 with a formidable array of patronesses, in 
 which the name of Mrs. J. Gardiner Halsey 
 figured both as patroness and as guiding 
 spirit. 
 
 "Here's another," continued Sue, plant- 
 ing before my gaze the notice of a current 
 events class to be held at the home of Mrs. 
 J. Gardiner Halsey upon Wednesday after- 
 noons. 
 
 "Did you read yesterday's social col- 
 umn?" inquired Sue with a twinkle in her 
 eye. "If not I'll get it for you," which she 
 did. 
 
 In the center of the page was the repro* 
 
Sister 169 
 
 duction of a fashionable photograph of a 
 woman of perhaps forty, smart, well-coif- 
 fured, without being really handsome, but 
 with a keen, intelligent expression tending 
 to firmness. Beneath it were the words, 
 "Mrs. J. Gardiner Halsey, whose eldest 
 daughter. Miss Muriel Halsey, is prominent 
 among this season's buds." 
 
 In another column was a short paragraph 
 to the effect that Mrs. J. Gardiner Halsey 
 was giving a tea for her daughter. Miss 
 Muriel Halsey, and her cousin. Miss Elsie 
 Wilmot, at the Priscilla Club on the twenty- 
 seventh of the month. 
 
 "No wonder 1 have n't seen her," laughed 
 Sue. 
 
 "Have we got to see her?" I ejaculated. 
 " How many of these blame things am I ex- 
 pected to attend?" 
 
 "None, if you strenuously object. But 
 I should think you ought to go to the tea. 
 
170 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 She's your only sister, and besides the Lady 
 Next Door will be there, you know," added 
 Sue. 
 
 "Well, even if I don't go, I suppose I shall 
 have to send flowers to Muriel and buy tick- 
 ets for the other shows. Harriet is a very 
 expensive family luxury." 
 
 "She certainly is," replied Sue pensively. 
 "I never knew any one who thinks up so 
 many things that other people have to pay 
 for. It has almost become a disease since the 
 war." 
 
 Just then the outer door slammed and a 
 cheerful feminine voice called, "Any one at 
 home?" It was Harriet. 
 
 She fairly blew into the room. Not in a 
 slangy sense, but the very breeziness of her 
 personality wafted her here and there and 
 always to the accompaniment of good humor 
 and high spirits. 
 
 "Well, you delightful Darby and Joan! 
 
Sister 171 
 
 This scene resembles a golden wedding an- 
 niversary. How are you bearing your soli* 
 tude?" 
 
 I took my feet grudgingly from the fender 
 and arose and greeted my sister as only a 
 T. B. M., or possibly a Harvard sophomore, 
 can. 
 
 "Well, how on earth did you get here at 
 this time of night.'*" asked Sue. "We've 
 only just finished reading of your latest 
 achievements," pointing to the paper. 
 
 "I just walked over," replied Harriet, 
 throwing off her sport coat. "It was such a 
 perfect night I could not stay in, and besides 
 I wanted some advice." 
 
 I moved uneasily at this. Advice meant 
 work and I scented danger ahead. 
 
 "The district nurse is leaving. Did you 
 know it. Sue? _ Well, it seems they have n't 
 paid her enough and there is no town fund to 
 take care of this important service. If some- 
 
172 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 thing is n't done, we can't have any nurse 
 out here this winter, and I think something 
 ought to be done." 
 
 "Yes, you naturally would," I admitted. 
 
 "It is n't the easiest thing in the world 
 to solicit money just now," she continued. 
 "All these drives have exhausted the com- 
 munity, and what with poor business and 
 taxes, people are not giving as they did." 
 
 "No, they can't," I managed to interject. 
 
 "Therefore, to raise the necessary sum we 
 must give them something for their money. 
 Get up something or other, and that is what 
 I came over to talk about." 
 
 "I hardly think we could be very helpful 
 with ideas, Harriet," said my wife; "we are 
 so quiet here." 
 
 Not any too quiet for a T. B. M., I thought, 
 but aloud I replied 
 
 "Harriet, I know perfectly well that you 
 have it all framed up. What's your idea?" 
 
Sister 173 
 
 "It's a play," said Harriet lightly. And 
 I groaned aloud as I sank back in my chair. 
 
 "You see we have had all the concerts and 
 lectures that people will stand, and fairs and 
 bazaars must be saved for the church, so 
 my idea was to get up a play with only a 
 small cast, just the people here in town, and 
 no one will refuse to buy tickets for a play 
 with home talent, even if they won't enjoy 
 it. You '11 take part, brother of mine, for the 
 sake of the cause and for my sake, now won't 
 
 you?" 
 
 There then ensued an argument and dis- 
 cussion which is too painful to set down upon 
 paper. Needless to say, Harriet won over 
 Sue and Sue browbeat me into yielding with 
 the worst possible grace. 
 
 After the die was cast, Harriet lost no 
 time, but, jerking on her coat while protest- 
 ing what a good old sport I was, breezed her 
 way out as she had come. At the open door. 
 
174 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 however, she turned and called back: "By 
 the way, don't forget the bridge party Fri- 
 day night. The Brandons are coming out 
 from town for the week-end and they are 
 counting on seeing you." The door slammed 
 and I looked up at my wife with haunted 
 eyes, my head bowed between my shoulders. 
 
 "Amateur theatricals at my age!'* I 
 groaned. 
 
 "Nonsense, it will do you good; make yoi» 
 forget yourself and business too," she re- 
 plied, patting my head as if I were a little 
 child. 
 
 "If Harriet had only remained in town or 
 gone South for the winter!" I sighed. 
 
 "Tush! She's your sister," answered Sue, 
 putting up the fender as a prelude to bed. 
 
TOPSY-TURVY 
 
TOPSY-TURVY 
 
 TopsY was our cook; she was not colored. 
 I have expostulated to my wife on several 
 occasions that she was not even a cook, 
 and the proof of my remarks was liter- 
 ally in the pudding; but as my wife invari- 
 ably reminded me of the several occasions 
 when we were without even the semblance 
 of a cook, and as neither of us possesses those 
 admirable qualities which consist of cruising 
 about the pantry and dishing up something 
 perfectly delicious out of the remains of 
 nothing at all, we felt the loss horribly. We, 
 therefore, put up with Topsy with equa- 
 nimity and we paid her regularly each week 
 a large proportion of our slender savings. 
 
 Our life was divided into three distinct 
 parts, as it concerned Topsy, — those eve- 
 nings when we dined quietly at home a deux. 
 
178 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 when we entertained assisted by Topsy, and 
 when we dined out, — and it may be safely 
 asserted that when we went out so did Topsy. 
 Our dinners at home did not represent 
 that charming picture of Darby and Joan 
 well known to those who are not so thor- 
 oughly immersed in the latest development 
 of art as to scorn old-time favorites. The 
 painting of Darby and Joan has been repro- 
 duced many times, and may be purchased 
 in the art sections of department stores. It 
 shows a table laid for two, heavily laden in 
 fact, and rich glass and china adorn the fleck- 
 less linen, and decanters are shown upon the 
 table. It is a fine tribute to the amenities of 
 the mid- Victorian era so scoffed at by twen- 
 tieth-century debutantes. At this table are 
 Darby and Joan, now grown old and grace- 
 fully so through an era of plenty and comfort. 
 Being a T. B. M., I feel old, and as I look 
 upon this picture I am tired, for the quiet. 
 
Topsy-Turvy 179 
 
 the comfort, the luxury, and the peace of this 
 evening meal fill me with a hopeless sort of 
 feeling that 1 have been checkmated by being 
 born to an era of dislocation of all the tradi- 
 tions so dear to the epicure, and therefore 
 the T. B. M. is more vulnerable at mealtimes 
 than at any other. No, the picture of Darby 
 and Joan in no way illustrates our home 
 dinner. My wife and I sit, to be sure, vis-a- 
 visy across a splendidly substantial mahog- 
 any table, which was one of our wedding 
 gifts, and each of us is seated in a chair wor- 
 thy of Sheraton, also wedding gifts; but on 
 the table, placed there noisily by Topsy, is a 
 plate of veal loaf, some warmed-over maca- 
 roni, a few leaves of salad which look as if 
 they had been used as the outer covering 
 of what might once have been a head of let- 
 tuce, before the chickens had secured the 
 heart, and enough bread and butter for eight 
 people. 
 
180 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 It must be admitted that Mary, our wait- 
 ress, was out. But the only difference would 
 have been that no salad would have been 
 served, and less bread in evidence, so that 
 we may count ourselves as the gainers. 
 
 My wife always explained such meals as 
 being merely the odds and ends, but I no- 
 ticed that they invariably came on to the 
 table upon days when she had gone to a 
 sewing-circle luncheon where whipped cream 
 had played a prominent part. However, we 
 both console ourselves with the thought that 
 we have saved money. 
 
 The expense, however, was brought up to 
 a handsome average by the little dinners 
 which we gave to friends who had been kind 
 enough to invite us to dine with them. It 
 was only by purchasing delicacies that we 
 were able to offset Topsy's quaint carica- 
 tures of cooking. 
 
 I remember one dinner a few weeks ago 
 
Topsy-Turvy 181 
 
 when we had invited certain friends whose 
 menage slid along noiselessly as if on greased 
 tracks. We had ventured upon oysters which 
 1 had purchased and had had opened at the 
 fish store. What was our horror when Mary 
 served the soup first and the oysters next. 
 The following morning, when my wife took 
 up the subject in the kitchen, Topsy asserted, 
 and vehemently so, that Sue was all wrong. 
 Soup came before fish, and she proceeded to 
 prove her case by quoting from her cook- 
 book. No power could shake her conviction 
 that we were wrong, and Sue was so fearful 
 that there would be a repetition that we 
 have forsworn oysters ever since. Upon 
 those rare occasions when we entertained — 
 what a misused term — my mental condi- 
 tion reminded me of those unforgettable 
 pictures of the Inferno drawn by Dore 
 which, encased in ornate bindings, adorned 
 the center table of our middle- Victoriair 
 
182 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 relatives. It was upon such occasions that 
 Topsy revealed her artistic temperament. 
 On another occasion when we were having 
 friends who entertained lavishly, Topsy sent 
 in the soup — a puree of green peas, with a 
 maraschino cherry daintily poised upon the 
 whipped cream. The color scheme was ad- 
 mirable, but my mental apparatus failed to 
 keep my conversational ability upon the 
 high level which a cocktail and caviare had 
 successfully launched. I knew that my wife 
 would suffer throughout the entire meal, 
 wondering what was going to take the place 
 of the cherries planned for a finishing touch 
 to the dessert. She need not have worried, 
 however, for Topsy's ingenuity was spent 
 by the time the dessert appeared minus any 
 adornment whatever. 
 
 Our family Thanksgiving dinner came off 
 without a hitch owing to the forethought 
 of my mother-in-law. My wife had herself 
 
Topsy-Turvy 183 
 
 proudly made a mince pie, having been 
 goaded to do so by that oft-repeated phrase 
 about mother's pies. She had instructed 
 Topsy to heat it just a bit to take the chill 
 off. Topsy, mindful of the request, placed 
 the pie in the oven and then promptly for- 
 got it until the hour destined for its appear- 
 ance. Topsy's sobs as she viewed the charred 
 remains were heard by us at table. My 
 mother-in-law, wise in all things except 
 grandchildren, had brought a mince pie with 
 her according to a time-honored custom, 
 and so once again the pie that mother made 
 was our refuge and delight. 
 
 When it came to Christmas and the at- 
 tendant problems, we decided to omit the 
 usual gifts among the members of the family. 
 What with eggs at $1.20 per, clothes at 
 $85.00 a suit, Billy's shoes at $9,00, servants 
 at figures which I dare not mention, and 
 taxes, taxes — Christmas gifts seemed, to 
 
184 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 say the least, a frill. Furthermore, there was 
 nothing much left in the bank, and the per- 
 sistency of the good-looking girls with those 
 fatal badges who literally storm the busi- 
 ness section of the city had emptied my 
 pockets successfully. My wife and I became 
 firm, therefore, in our resolve not to give 
 each other presents on Christmas Day. 
 
 And then the week before Christmas came. 
 Certain exceptions to the rule loomed large. 
 "Could we omit my own mother, who 
 invariably came to the rescue at critical 
 times with a welcome check .f^" No, I put 
 my foot down. She must have something, if 
 only a plant. A plant was ordered. Then, of 
 course, the children. They were to have 
 their Christmas as usual, and we found that 
 the usual meant in cash a fifty per cent in- 
 crease. There was my wife's maiden aunt, 
 who always knitted something for every 
 one and then got the beastly things mixed. 
 
Topsy-Turvy 185 
 
 Last year I received a pair of bed socks in- 
 tended for my brother-in-law's baby. How- 
 ever, she must have something useful, and 
 a hot-water bottle was done up in white 
 paper with yards of red ribbon and the 
 usual Red Cross stamp affixed; and so it 
 went until the table was piled high. It 
 seemed to me that there was no abatement in 
 the number of gifts, although I was told the 
 cost was trifling. 
 
 Finally it came to the servants, and here 
 my wife was adamant. 
 
 "If we want them to stay we must do 
 something handsome." Well, what was 
 handsome? That was the question, and we 
 fell back upon the old argument which in- 
 variably puts me into a temper. "We must 
 do what everybody else does," stated my 
 wife firmly. 
 
 This apparently consisted of giving to 
 each maid $5.00 in cash from me, something 
 
186 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 from each child, and a dress or a muff or 
 some article of attire from my wife. 
 
 It made no difference how long the maid 
 happened to have been an inmate of our 
 home or whether she was adequate. That 
 had nothing to do with the case, and as usual 
 I had nothing to say about it. In fact, I had 
 nothing to say about the servants that ever 
 had the slightest effect, although I talked at 
 length upon the servants, touching upon the 
 relative high cost of domestic service in com- 
 parison with the price of labor in other fields 
 of endeavor. I pointed out not once, but, 
 several times — my wife claims I have said 
 it a hundred times, but she exaggerates — 
 that a domestic, when one reckons her board 
 and lodging, is recompensed at a higher rate 
 than teachers, for instance, who have full 
 charge of the education of our next genera- 
 tion, or of certain types of bank officials who 
 are responsible for thousands of dollars. I 
 
Topsy-Turvy 187 
 
 likened them to this, that, and the other 
 wage-earner until my wife pointed out that 
 my remarks had nothing whatever to do 
 with the matter, as Mrs. Mortimer J. Mor- 
 timer, who lives next door, paid two dollars 
 a week more to her cook than we do, and 
 Mrs. P. Van Vandergrift, who lives on the 
 other side, paid one dollar a week more for 
 her waitress, and that, therefore, we were 
 actually saving money. Then the argument 
 ceased. 
 
 And so when Christmas morning came, I 
 found myself in the usual mental condition 
 of feigning joy over the receipt of a necktie 
 which I secretly swore to exchange the next 
 day, a pair of silk socks two sizes too small, 
 a blotter, and one or two useless knickknacks 
 for my desk, and, thank God, the usual box 
 of Coronas from my roommate. 
 
 "You must go and wish the maids a Merry 
 Christmas," cautioned my wife; and so I 
 
188 The Reflections of a T. B. M. 
 
 made my way kitchenward, preparing a little 
 speech calculated to arouse loyalty and af- 
 fection. 
 
 The speech was received with a stolid 
 indifference, and I added to it by inquiring 
 of Topsy whether she had received all the 
 plunder she expected. 
 
 Yes, it appeared, she had. She showed me 
 the fur my wife had given to her, and which 
 I hoped to be able to pay for in January, a 
 five-pound box of candy from a *' cousin" 
 (we only received a pound). It is curious 
 how many cousins — and useful ones at 
 that — one's servants possess. Topsy re- 
 ceived a number of other gifts which cost 
 more than any of the things 1 had conferred 
 upon my relatives. And as I was going she 
 said, "I got fifty dollars from a friend; was 
 n't he the generous one?" I acquiesced. 
 
 A swift calculation brought me the con- 
 viction that Topsy's gifts totaled about 
 
Topsy-Turvy 189 
 
 $100, while my own, with the exception of 
 the cigars, had netted me about five. 
 
 "It's Topsy's world now," said my wife. 
 
 "The world is Topsy-Turvy, you mean," 
 was my reply. 
 
 THE END 
 
^^-^