A

T about the time these lines are read-if they are the National Press Club of Washington will be moving into its magnificent new home, certain floors of the imposing new National Press Building-ten million dollars' worth of brick and stone and other things which, some time, somehow, is to become the property of the Club. The how of it is all perfectly clear, they say; but it has to do with the science of finance, which, to me, is the alias of mystery.

There is little doubt that every correspondent here will feel called upon to write of the Club's new home for the reason, if for no other, that it is new.

A Washington correspondent must, by the terms of his tenure, write of new things. And yet, what that is genuinely worth while can be said of anything new? What, in a serious way, could one write of a new shoe? All that it has is shiny effrontery-and, perhaps, pinching power. But an old shoe! There is comedy. And tragedy. And that fringe of the essence of faith which is called superstition.

So of all things else. What is to be written of ships until they have plowed the waves? What, really, until they have sunk beneath the waves? What of sealing wax until, broken, it gives up its mystery? What of cabbages until they have become the concomitant of corned beef? What of kings until they have ruled or ruined?

What of a new club-house? Nothing but words. But of an old one

These old quarters of the National Press Club of Washington are, it seems to me, what the quarters of a corps of writing geniuses ought to be. An attic on the large scale, it has all of that atmosphere which used to make great writers. In the summer it is hotter, I think, than any other place on earth. But other times it has its beauties, particularly when the snow beats upon its half-windows and blurs, just enough to make it glorious, the picture of La Fayette Square, the old bronze warriors at its corners standing black beneath white hats and ponchos. Or when in a flaming winter sky, the flagstaff of Arlington cutting its disc, the sun goes down beyond the Potomac.

In this attic once a war was fought

By DIXON MERRITT

in a sense. And here, in a sense, a war

was won.

O

NCE I determined to send out a story "on my own." I submitted it only to Garrard Harris, late of the Birmingham "News," then of the Department of Commerce, and my closest companion in misery.

He advised me not to send it. When I asked for reasons, he said, "It's sufficient reason that the papers will not print it." I said they would. He countered: "Well, do you think my old paper, the 'Register,' would touch it?" I thought it would. And he, losing patience, said: "Well, shoot it. And I'll bet you a hat it doesn't get printed." "In the 'Register'?" I inquired. "Yes," he agreed, "in the 'Register." " "I shot it."

The next day Garrard called me on the telephone.

"Dix," he said, "come down and get your hat. The 'Register' printed every word of your story; and if they've got any bigger type than they used in the headlines they are saving it for Gabriel's last trump."

lated Hamp Reynolds, who had to do with shipping. At a quarter to midnight we were on the last game, and, naturally, he was "playing 'em close to his vest"-as close as is possible in the nature of dominoes. Being winner, I could afford to hurry and to urge haste.

"Hurry up, Hamp," I implored; "it will be tomorrow the first thing you know."

He hauled out his watch, looked at it, solemnly shook his head. "Yes," he said, "it's worse than that-it will be next week in fifteen minutes," and calmly continued to debate with himself the relative merits of making twenty-five or of "sewing up the game."

PE

EOPLE used to come, just as they did to the soldiers in the camps, to cheer us up by talking to us.

A traveling person was lecturing one night on jungle thrills and the like. Henry Eland, of the "Wall Street Journal," and Arthur Krock, of—I have forgotten whether he was then on the Louisville "Courier-Journal" or the New York "World"-happened to be sitting together.

The lecturer told of something that made a noise "like a bull eland." Laughed Krock, "Harry, just what kind of noise does a bull eland make?” Flashed Eland, "Much like an empty Krock."

OME of us sometimes wrote thing not, strictly speaking, involved in winning the war.

It was shortly after Christmas of that winter that John Wilbur Jenkins, who had the Navy on his hands, appealed for help. for help. "I've got to write a speech, he explained, "for one of these United States Senators, to be delivered on Rob ert E. Lee's birthday. And I want to read some Lee poetry."

I told him that, in my opinion, there were only two genuinely worth-whil poems on Lee. "One of them," I said "is Father Ryan's 'The Sword of Lee. The other is called 'Lee at Lexington. It was written ten or twelve years ag by a young newspaper man whose nam I have forgotten. But I have the poen in a scrap-book somewhere. I'll find i for you."

(Continued on page 31)

ad to d midnigh nd, natu se to h

ory of a certain

shipping clerk in

Yes," "Bought and will Paid For" will

s," and have a soft spot hime in his heart for enty-fire Frank Craven, A

genuine human being, with a genuine talent.

they Which makes it all the more disapmps, pointing to have to report that an eve

ning spent at his latest play, "The Nineing on teenth Hole," will be only an average he like evening.

et Jour Indeed, we shouldn't be surprised if ave for Mr. Craven himself entertains some on th such idea. Else why the moving picThe Natures-between acts-of Walter Hagen, sitting Bobby Jones, Tommy Armour, and the

ng

crowds that follow the tournaments? the Why the efforts of Mr. Grantland Rice to reiterate that golf has become a game for the MILLIONS?

make Perhaps these things make it possible emp for people who know nothing of golf to

get more enjoyment from the play than would otherwise be the case. But the this impression remains that all the ancient ved and honorable game can be made to

contribute to any play Mr. Craven has of the made it contribute to "The Nineteenth

eech

Unite

Hole"-which, as most golfers will suspeaspect, refers both to that genial moment in the lic (Pardon) locker-room when the score cards are discussed and to that Roby exciting moment when a match is all nt even at the eighteenth green and has to be carried beyond for a decision.

the

For the locker-room itself is shown, with all its familiar accompaniments of B. V. D.'S, set-ups, and shower-baths (in the distance), and its occasional telephone calls from irritated wives of members. And the climax of the plot

is when Mr. Vernon Chase, writer on academic subjects and previously unaware of golf-is forced, in the last act,

to play the club bully for a large sum of money, plus his club memberships; and

January 4, 1928

All this is funny-of course. unquestionably a bona fide part of the American scene. But it is thin, nevertheless, and meager; and with the precise emotional paucity of which golf widows complain.

Certainly there is in it none of the beauty of the golf links themselves-no cool tees high in the woods, nor shady greens beside ponds, nor stretching shadows on the turf. No pine trees beside the sea. No autumnal shafts of russet striking across the fading fairways; no winds shaking the rough.

To many a golfer these things far transcend the competitive thrill involved. But they do not seem to exist in the mind of the characters in "The Nineteenth Hole;" or at least they do not appear in the dialogue, although the producer has tried to suggest them in the scenery. Somehow, in some curious fashion, although Mr. Craven is admittedly a golf enthusiast, the glamour of golf has eluded him in his play, and only the humor remains-with touches of truth inimitably done.

Was that perfect tee shot an accident? Or can you get it again? And can you remember this afternoon to keep your head down? Your left arm now-well, we all know these touches; they are almost unbearably real to the true golfer. The patter, too. Is it going to rain? I certainly need the exercise! I will work tonight instead. All fives today! Don't press! Eye on the

the dream of the optimist, as well as a method of escaping from the emotional realities of life?

Certainly, Mr. Craven makes out a good case for this point of view. The ordinary American golf husband is a small boy, says "The Nineteenth Hole," in effect; a boy ruled by his wife and mothered by his wife, and in general unable to dominate his woman or even fight for his own independence, except under extraordinary circumstances such as when he feels he may be losing caste with his fellows.

When thus aroused, he is rather a lion-like chap-but only for a moment. Just a flash in the pan. In the end he comes to heel again, and the wives write the Armistice terms and conclude the Treaty of Peace.

As a picture of the successful, dominant American business man the Man who does Big Things in a Big Way-the play must be a most depressing one for women who think, because there is enough truth in Craven's picture to enable him to be funny about it. And it isn't just his likable simpleton alone who fits the picture. The number of American men who do fit it runs into millions, In fact, as a satire on American life, as it shows itself in our country clubs, the play could easily have been made into å kind of Main Street of the golf links.

As it is, in its present form, it presents only the sad and yet ever-pleasurable spectacle of another good man spoiled by golf-and in this case the playwright himself. For his show itself is all golf and no drama.

No, no, Mr. Craven! Not in the theatre.

I

N our family of eight the happiest ceremony of the day was climbing into bed and calling for father to come tell us a story. The favorite of all was "The Little Mouse." Not only we, but countless other children shivered and wept over the fate of James, recounted with all the dramatic realism of a ministerial talent.

For years "The Little Mouse" story remained a stark tragedy. But one day, when my father, sitting cozily in the hammock with his audience, had uttered the last dread words, the small girl looked up, her eyes streaming with tears.

"A-and h-he n-never saw his mother a-any more?" she gulped, staring into his face with horror.

"No," the reverend gentleman admitted guiltily, "he never saw his mother any more."

Without a word, the child rose and retired to another part of the grounds, absolutely refusing to speak to him or so much as look in his direction during the rest of his stay.

So my father decided that, after all, he had probably made a mistake, and that, in the end, James really- But read "The Little Mouse" aloud to some child and see.

IN

N almost every family there is one favorite story which is an unwritten classic. It is usually the invention of one of the parents, and is sometimes passed on with variations to each succeeding younger generation. In their way, these stories are like the folk-tales of the Negroes, which Joel Chandler Harris retold under the title of "Uncle Remus."

Each week in this department Harriet Eager Davis, whom many thousands of young people will remember as the editor of the "Little Delineator," will tell for our younger readers some one's favorite story. Incidentally, she will be glad to get from any Outlook reader who is interested the story he remembers from his own childhood. For we predict that the nursery grown-ups will not be the ones who least enjoy these tales.

but things kept getting worse and worse until at last one day there was nothing left in the house to eat.

So she took her son aside and said: "James, I have done my best, but somehow I just can't get along. There is no food for you and your little sister. James, I'm obliged to ask you to help me. I hate to send you away so young, but I want you to go out into the world and see what you can find."

Of course, James felt very proud to be trusted with such an important errand, and he promised to do his best.

"But," said his mother, "remember this, James. When you find food, don't stop to eat it. Hurry straight home and tell Mother about it; then you and sister Sally and I can all go and eat together."

So James promised.

"Another thing, James, before we say good-by," said his mother. "Out in the world where you are going there is a terrible Thing. It has four legs and a great long tail and ears that stick up and big round eyes and terrible sharp teeth and claws that scratch. And there is nothing this Thing likes better than to

worse than a Cat. It has two legs a two long arms, and it is called a B And whenever it sees a little mou somehow, somewhere, it will find a sto and throw it at the mouse. So be v careful, James, never to go near a Bo So James promised to remem everything his mother had said, and kissed her and little sister good-by a started off.

But though he ran a long, long w hunting here, there, and everywhere, a scrap of food could he find, not e a crumb of bread nor a grain of co At last, when he was about ready to t back, he came to a farmhouse, and in the barn stood a big barrel.

James stopped and sniffed. "Um!" thought; "something to eat here, su and he hunted all around the barrel til he found a tiny little hole. It was small that if James had not been so t from starving he could never have gled through. As it was, it was a ti squeeze, but at last he was inside barrel.

And what do you suppose he sa Corn. Hundreds and thousands grains of corn. The barrel was full

corn!

James forgot all about mother and tle sister waiting at home; he forgot

mother's warnings; he forgot everything but how hungry he felt and how good that corn looked. He just sat down and ate and ate and ate, crunching the heart out of the kernels and throwing away the shucks, until he could eat no more. Then, tired with the exercise and the excitement, he fell fast asleep. tup. He woke up, hearing a rough voice ow, Ja call: "Hey, Bill, get me the hatchet. ever to I'm going to open this barrel." And another voice answered, "All right, Father."

"ther It was the farmer and his son coming world, to open the corn barrel.

Poor James! He remembered what his mother had said, and he ran to the hole. But he had grown so fat with eating that he couldn't squeeze through. The hole was too small. James tried to gnaw it larger, but there was no time.

"Cr-rack!" went a terrible noise above his head. The farmer had split open the barrel. Poor James crouched in the corn, too frightened to move.

"Haw! haw!" laughed the farmer. "Bill, just look here! There's a mouse. Won't our tom-cat have a feast?" And then two big faces stared grinning down at the little mouse.

Poor James! He thought of his leg mother, waiting at home, he thought of d a sister Sally, he remembered what his emmother had said; but it was too late. da "Oh, me!" he thought; "will I ever be get home again? Will I ever see my a mother and my little sister any more?" eme "Go get old Tom," said the farmer, and and in a minute the Boy was holding a by terrible Thing over the top of the barrel.

It had four legs and a great long tail, ngjust as Mother had said, and ears that here stuck up and big round eyes and terrible

not

y to

Um

t

ide

As soon as the cat saw the mouse it gave a terrible "Mieow-w!" and tried to jump. But the Boy reached down one of his long arms and picked up James

and set him on the floor. James started to run, but pounce! the Cat brought his paw down, and he could not stir. Then old Tom lifted his paw.

"Ah," thought James, "here's my chance!" and he tried to run again. But the Cat was only playing with him. Pounce! he caught James under the other paw, and this time James felt something sharp. He remembered what Mother had said about claws.

Once more the Cat let go, and this time James ran all the way into the yard. But Tom caught him again in his mouth and tossed him about roughly, till James felt two rows of something sharp. He remembered what Mother had said about teeth.

He knew now that unless he found some way to escape the Cat was going to eat him up.

So the next time old Tom let go James ran and hid under a leaf. The Cat stopped and looked about, puzzled, then he began sniffing the ground. Trembling all over, James waited. If only the Cat would turn in the other direction, he could make a dash and get away. And then wouldn't he run home as fast as he could, back to Mother and little Sally!

Nearer and nearer came old Tom, sniffing, sniffing, sniffing; all of a sudden he lifted his head and came straight towards the leaf.

"Good-by, Mother," thought James. "Good-by, little sister," and he shut his eyes, waiting for the end.

Something picked him up, then he heard the Boy's voice cry: "S-scat! Get

And James knew that it liked nothing out!" and he opened his eyes to find he

was in the Boy's hand.

"Look, Father," the Boy was saying,

"wasn't he smart? He hid under a leaf. I think I'll keep him for a pet. S-scat! Get out!" he cried to old Tom, who was yowling and sniffing about, very angry at losing his dinner.

So the Boy dropped the little mouse into his pocket and walked away, whistling. There was a peanut there, but somehow James had lost his appetite. To be sure, he was saved from the terrible Cat, but what was this Boy going to do with him? Mother had said that Boys were worse than Cats. Oh, how he longed to see Mother again, and little sister Sally, and how he wished he had run straight home when he found the corn barrel, instead of sitting down and eating all alone so greedily!

It was dark, but James could see just as well as in the day, and suddenly he discovered something. There was a hole in the pocket--a hole the Boy's mother had forgotten to sew up. And this hole was just big enough for a mouse to slip

NAVY

PLANS at Washing t o n do not seem to have

greatly excited the other nations most concerned.

The King's speech closing the British Parliament which, of course, means the views of the Prime Minister and his Cabinet, who have the monarch's address prepared for himindicated that the naval policy of Great Britain will remain unchanged. Voicing regret that "it was impossible to reach a general agreement at the Geneva Naval Conference to limit the navies of Great Britain, Japan, and the United States," the address continued: "My Government has no intention of embarking on an increase in their naval building program, which is based upon a considered view of the defensive needs of my widespread empire."

In Japan neither the spokesmen of the navy nor the newspapers showed any concern. As a matter of fact, the Japanese interpreted the American building plan as a means of giving the United States something to bargain with in a future naval limitation conference.

After all, it is not the size of the navy that matters most-except to taxpayers -but the policies which it is to be used to maintain. So long as American policies are not aggressive, no American navy need alarm any one.

By MALCOLM WATERS DAVIS

several of the once most prominent Bolsheviks. Among them are Leon Trotsky and Gregory Zinoviev, now voted out of the Communist Party for disagreeing with the ruling majority. The ludicrous paradox is that the doctrines which have led to their downfall are practically the same doctrines of labor dictatorship which swept them into prominence in the earlier days of the Revolution. But Soviet Russia has a new boss, Joseph Stalin, who seems to see the need of conciliating the masses of the peasants. They are far from being Communists or enthusiasts for an industrial dictatorship. Hence the disgrace of Trotsky and Zinoviev and their comrades.

Party loyalty is the chief Communist virtue, and expulsion from the partyas Stalin has said-is the severest penalty a Communist can suffer. Zinoviev, Kamenev, and ten other erstwhile leaders expelled as renegades from the party ranks have addressed to the party convention a humble plea for readmittance, promising full capitulation. They were referred to the Central Control Committee, which can readmit them in not less than six months.

Trotsky, more fortunately situated than the others, is said to be contributing from royalties on his books to an "Opposition Relief Fund" for dismissed Communists.

and in one sense it constitutes an indi cation of the effect of the war on Italy At the same time, to have resumed the obligation to pay gold for the inflated paper currency, even at this depreciated rate, is a measure of the economi achievements of the Fascist dictatorship

Whatever may be said of the high handedness and oppressions of the "Black Shirts," it is doubtful in the ex treme that any other party could have brought Italy back so soon to solvency on any basis. Italian stocks on world markets at once began to show the effec of the move by increases in value.

Financial interest in Europe now cen ters on the question whether France wil follow suit. But the franc has been fixed on international exchanges by th Bank of France at a value considerably below that at which the lira has been stabilized. And France would neithe like to stabilize her currency perma nently at a lower rate-thus admitting unfavorable comparison with Italy-no face the readjustment of stabilization now at as high a rate. So Premie Poincaré has cannily indicated that h will do nothing before the spring elec tions test the popular support for hi economic policies. He has just induced his Parliament to adopt his balance Budget.

D

EMOCRACY suffered a bad setback in the World War, argues Edwin L. James, Paris correspondent of the New York "Times," who shows that two-thirds of the people of Europe now do not control their own affairs. But representative government is only one of various ways of making nations run a way that suits some temperaments and is less essential to others, as the Bolsheviks and Fascists have been proving. And the decline of democracy just now is no demonstration that the relapse into dictatorship is permanent. In human affairs, that is the one thing you can be sure it is not.