DUCES WILD

In this irreverent age of the insubordinate younger generation, the heroic example of one Edda, daughter of Mussolini who would not stir her little toe without her father's consent, smells sweeter than garlic in this naughty world. To complete the incident of her temptation, picture now one Hispano-Suiza whining to be thrown into high gear, an overpoweringly handsome member of the Black Hand or perhaps the Black Shirt Club, and a glorious Italian moon, that is as glorious a moon as moons in Italy may be. But Edda was not seduced by the promise of a wild ride behind the screaming Stork for necking on the Neckar. "I am a disciplined Fasrist," she cried with ambidextrous gestures of Latinate obedience. "Without the permission of my Duce. I refuse to move." Nor did she, Submission to parental authority triumphed supreme.

But such dependence on the parental dictum was not the product of a virgin mind. The man who toys each day with pet lions must receive the credit. Surely it is time for him to outrival the poetry of D'Annunxio with a treatise on eugenics. The glory that was Garibaldt learned a thing or two in Brooklyn. Let Italy now return her national debt in kind. Let the Duce take the flower of our American girlhood: Mr. Ziegfield has had his turn.