SHE LAUGH AT ME

Humor benighted in a wilderness of words. Philosophy as ancient sit is petty a more frequent use of capitals than custom (aristocratic custom, but custom nevertheless) allows--that is the Proletarian who for the first time wipes the dust from his shoes and steps into the prior. Nor does he seem a quite at home, naturally enough. Fingers that are more used to the aigrette, than to the pen do not response easily to the new demands; his humor somehow lacks that airy step of one who is well-fed and content with the universe. Yet now that this creature stands in the middle of our own clean carpet, was are rather obligate to decide what we will do with him. For though he arrogating pretends that he is the master, we know better. He is before us holy on sufferance is it not our carpet?

So we must decide what to do. We might listen to him. But alas! He has not tongue of his own; only a few words and phrases which he has picked up through contact with his betters. Addison may pass disguised as a horney handed son of toil but a coal-heavier cannot hide himself under all the wigs and satin breaches in the world. There, then stands our literacy he be; with the shirt of prince and the overalls of mechanic; with the vocabulary of scholar and the ideas of a peasant.

Let us hope that he will close the door after him when he goes out.