BOOB

There died in Lynchburg, Virginia the other day Mr. W.D. Diuguid, a man who, more than any hero of Poe, was dogged into his grave by an obsession. The fact that his name was a palindrome, that is, read the same backward as forward, changed the life of Mr. Diuguid. For palindromes, like Mary's lamb, followed him where'er he went, and since his only fortune was a modest undertaking business, this was not far. The only women who ever meant anything in his life were named Anna, Meem, and Hannah. It is therefore easy to understand why Mr. Diuguid early gave up the fight, embraced his cross, and began actually to look for palindromes. His residence and office addresses were both number 616, his telephone 111 and 333, his lodge membership card 313, and his motor license 67,076.

It is wholly accountable that his favorite show was "Bab"; such a man could never prostitute his art by going to see RinTinTin. His friends began to telephone him palindromes; he needed a telephoned eyeopener to bring him out of a thesaurus hangover from the night before. But Mr. Diuguid triumphed even in death, lingering until the eleventh month of his 77th year. It is a proof of our perverted sense of values that a life so dedicated should win only a posthumous notoriety on the front page of the New York Times.