October 1,1926 ik Price 15 cents CN-ICAGOAN PROPERTY OF THE CWCAGO HISTORICAL SC -f U2 NORTH DEARP^' - PATTY 1 •^SSSSS ouJouM w\oi (yicdidgg frfeue " A U W A Y r ME" "BLUE O Q C U I D " COPDAY.PARiy :¦' IMPORTED BY LIONEL , 3QO FIFTM AVE , NEW YOQK COHDAY LIDrTICKv— rUP£RLATIVE/ THE CHICAGOAN, published semi-monthly by THE CHICAGOAN PUBLISHING CO., Inc. Frederick M. Rosen, Pres. ; I. H. Marth, Vice-President; Kurt S. Fallbacher, Secretary; L. R. Rosen, Treasurer; John K. Kettlewell, Advertising Manager, 417 Main Street, Wilmette, 111. Executive and Editorial Offices, 154 East Erie Street, Chicago, 111. Subscription, $3.00; single copies, 15 cents. Vol. 2, No. 2. October 1. 1926. Second Class Rights Applied for at the Post Office at Wilmette, 111., under the Act of March 3, 1879. Copyright Applied for, 1926, by THE CHICAGOAN PUBLISHING CO., Inc. 2 TWECI4ICAG0AN TUE CWCAGOAN/ CENT- 0019 £V£S.AAU>SAT./H/rr )) SAT- EV£.$3oo | FUNNieST SHOW IN TOWN I AIL CHICAGO 15 HOWLING ^ WITH LAUGHTER AT A|UWU "SENSATIONAL HIT" ' AMV LESUe %GOOD SHOW - C0O0 «W FRF£>.X>OAtAGHr WOODS Tonite 8:15 Sharp Matinees Wednesday and Saturday The HIT of the Century SOPHIE TED TUCKER • LEWIS in La Maire's Affairs with Lester Allen Cleverest, Costliest Revue ever staged Praise from every critic ''Sophie an Artist. Good Ted Lewis and valuable Lester Allen also shine — I,t, was to laugh yourself pink." Ashton Stevens. THE THEATRE DRAMA BLACK VELVET — Moderately entertaining drama of our Southern Aristocracy, with Frank Keenan. THE PLAYHOUSE. THE GREAT GATSBY— Mr. Rennie doing a good turn for F. Scott Fitzgerald and Mr. Davis. THE STUDEBAKER. KONGO — A trip through Mr. Freud's labora tory THE PRINCESS. COMEDY GENTLEMEN PREFER BLONDES — Reaches an occasional psychosexual climax. THE SEL- WYN. TREAT 'EM ROUGH— Nothing new, but en tertaining — and a relief to know that the Italians are not a one-type race. THE HAR RIS. LOVE 'EM AND LEAVE 'EM— It's a show. Take your own chances. LA SALLE. THE POOR NUT— College as it isn't. A track meet, co-eds and a typical Phi Beta Kappa. THE CORT. COAL-OIL JENNIE— THE BLACKSTONE. PAY TO BEARERS— THE ADELPHI. MUSICAL COMEDY CASTLES IN THE AIR— It was good. Chorus grandmothers of the original cast. THE OLYMPIC. PINAFORE — An agreeable Gilbert and Sullivan revival. Good cast, good music. THE AUDI TORIUM. DEAREST ENEMY — An inoffensive operetta of revolutionary days in New York. Forget the title and the show has an even break. THE ILLINOIS. THE VAGABOND KING— You will find Den nis King as Francois Villon and some good sing ing in this one. THE GREAT NORTHERN. SONG OF THE FLAME— Gaudy— humorless— and Gershwin music. APOLLO. REVUES LA MAIRE'S AFFAIRS— The dirtiest and best show in town. THE WOODS. THE PASSING SHOW— New York's THE MERRY WORLD plus New York's PAS- SIONS OF 1926. THE FOUR COHANS. DO YOU KNOW CHICAGO? 1. Who owns the streets of Chicago? 2. Who elects our senators to Con gress? 3. What does the law provide for boot leggers? 4. What crimes are punishable by death? 5. What body fights mosquitoas and sponsors its own rodeo on Michigan Avenue? 6. Who are the art dictators of Chicago? 7. What is the favorite summer attrac tion in the loop? Answers on opposite page. OPENING SWEETHEART TIME— A song-and-dance of NEVER AGAIN! with Stanley Ridges and Harry Kelly. September 20. THE GARRICK. September 20. Mandel Brothers' Style Show in the Little French Rooms, fourth floor. Latest Parisian showings. THE CHICAGOAN 3 V^flftrniftffllhrtftfflftpflmrtWTOmH^^ nn inn imt i m ift>i>>Trt*riT»t CALENDAR OF EVENT/ VODVIL PALACE— First class bills. STATE-LAKE — Next best bet. First run movies also. MAJESTIC — Continuous from noon to 11 p. m. DO YOU KNOW CHICAGO? 1. The Yellow Cab Company. 2. Samuel Insull. 3. A star, a gun, and a Cadillac. 4. Those committed by insolvent male Democrats and females over thirty- five. 5. The sanitary district. 6. Mr. Balaban, Mr. Katz, and the window decorator at Marshall Field's. 7. The Madison Street dentist ' who pulls teeth in a display window. Questions on opposite page. MOVIES CHICAGO, ORIENTAL, McVICKERS AND ROOSEVELT present super productions. The first two are notable for their hysterical archi tecture and weird stage contraptions. VARIETY, at the Roosevelt is causing con siderable comment. The photography is ex ceptional and it certainly is not a usual movie. AFTER THEATRE CHEZ PIERRE— Pierre Nuyttens' artistic res taurant. Dancing, dining and after theatre sup per. "Snapshots of 1926" an entertaining revue. Ontario Street and Fairbanks Court. BEACH WALK— Boats pass by with their little lights, and the waves wash against the landing. Edgewater Beach Hotel. LA SALLE ROOF GARDEN— Jack Chapman's orchestra furnishes the music. Dinner and dancing from six to one. Real food royally served. LaSalle, Hotel. GARDEN OF ALLAH— Romantic and preten tious. A pleasant drive along the North Shore, west to Waukegan road lands one there. POMPEIAN ROOM— Charming surroundings, a good floor, adequate entertainment and Henri Gendron and his orchestra. CONGRESS HOTEL. VILLA VENICE— On the banks of the Des- plaines. Twenty-eight persons in the entertain ment and a wonderful dance floor. SAMOVAR — Russian surroundings, entertain ment and good music. 624 S. Michigan Ave. VICTORIAN ROOM— Supper, dancing, Jules Hurtveaux and his orchestra; Palmer House. THE DRAKE TERRACE— Green archs, a good floor and Bobby Melker and his orchestra. DRAKE HOTEL. GALLERIES ART INSTITUTE— W. S. Schwartz, Francis Greenman, Flora Schoenfeld, John David Brein and Irving Manoir and the Baer Brothers. ROULLIER GALLERIES— There is no single exhibit. They are showing, in a group, the works of the fine modern masters. ANDERSON ART CO.— A special collection of paintings by both old and modern masters. ACKERMANN'S — Nothing in particular until October 10th. A special exhibit of modern etchings are now on the wall. DUNBAR EXHIBIT— Artists of the modern school are being shown. The special exhibits will open October 1st. O'BRIEN — No special showing. SAM H. HARRIS _ THEATRE _ Matinees Wed. and Sat. 2:25 RICHARD HERNDON presents A New Comedy by FREDERIC and FANNY HATTON "TREAT »EM ROUGH" — WITH— GENEVIEVE TOBIN And a splendid supporting company directed by ALLAN DINEHART N. B.— -Allan Dinehart is now appearing as Tony Barudi Amy Leslie says: "Genevieve Tobin has never been more alluring." Ashton Stevens says: "I saw Mr. Dinehart's Tony. I can't imagine the part better played." CfiiiUftff NOW ami Den playing Great Northern RUSSELL JANNEY presents The Musical Triumph THE VAGABOND KING Based on McCarthy's "IF I WERE KING" with DENNIS KING ARTHUR DEACON BERNA DEANE Cast Ensemble and Orchestra of 150 The most thrilling musical play ever produced in America. 4 TWECI4ICAG0AN M U M Wj !<i w w !?§ Wm w W Isi Hi Hi S» w W Hi w w w 1® W Hi Riou cujhx> s&ek snruoAt thirugs The new Millinery Department presents to the very smart woman hats that fulfil her most exacting requirements Jz&pUcaA. of branch modaL- indwidually fitted to the, head We announce a beautiful and complete collection of advance modes — ~ surpassinglu smart Pans MCAVOY^o 615 N Michigan Avenue CHICAGO M JM IM 1M §f| ffl JM ffl W W IM M (M M M Mj W W W « Mj jg^j £& M M W-ICAGOAN T14-E TALK OF TI4E TOWN Commerce paid its most bitter tribute to patriotism the other day. The old man who sells pears on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Lake Street sacrificed two sales while he drew a picture of the American flag on the temporary wooden structure of the new build ing at that corner. As might be ex pected, the furious customers pow dered their noses and walked away. After all, patriotism was only an abstract, doubtful quality, whereas two sales meant ten cents. "And if you're doing it for art," one of them inferred with her eyebrows, "you might as well stop now." A thin dime pounding on the wooden table. And all the time the old fellow care fully filling in the red and blue por tions of the flag. Altruism with a Point ON the Outer Drive, opposite the Field Museum, is a large sign which reads : "This is the site of the John G. Shedd Aquarium, a gift to the South Park Commissioners." We're still trying to decide whether Mr. Shedd was being face tious, whether we misread the sign, or whether the painter had a little difficulty with his prepositions. Get a job hopping bells in one of the Chicago hotels. Get two jobs hopping bells. The more jobs you have the better off you'll be. You can't expect to make a com fortable living unless some one in the family is a bell boy. We've just heard — of course, you can believe it or not — that two of the bell boys at the Congress Hotel are living at the Blackstone. Now the Congress has been famous for several things, but we never knew that the bell boys figured in so re muneratively. And as for the Blackstone, we were under the impression that the only salaried people who could af ford to live there were plumbers and actresses. And speaking of hotels, we were more than interested to read about the two homicidal waiters who resorted to stabbing for the priv ilege to serve Mr. Drake. Buy a hotel ; that's the only reme dy. We've never had two waiters — even at the Drake — fight to serve us. Our great difficulty has been to get some one to do the service with any thing that even smacked of willing ness. We wonder if all of Mr. Drake's waiters are so easily provoked to stabbing. Wouldn't it be pleasant to order a five-dollar chicken sandwich and forget to leave a tip? More Funerals It happened in an English class at the University of Chicago. The professor was reading the newspaper before the class started. He had been wading through the limitless accounts of the recent super- funeral, done in a typical moving picture style. There were testimonials of the well-advertised grief of lovers and ex-wives. There were extended ac counts of the ridiculous actions of the experience-weary New Yorkers, and when he finished the front page he turned to the center of the paper where, in one corner, he read the announcement of the death of Doc tor Eliot. He pulled his glasses from his nose, turned to his class and said, "Eliot? Who in hell is Dr. Eliot?" Jackson Park is at the service of those who swim, ride, row, play tennis, golf, baseball, football, or croquet. If none of these sports appeals to you, you are privileged to invent one of your own. Last Sunday a man was seen lolling on 6 the grass, gazing in utter content ment at the beautiful old ruin of the former Field Museum while a por table victrola near him played "I Want to Be Happy." The Great West Side — Where the Grass is Greenest IN contemplating the West Side — that is west of Halsted Street, one thinks of extensive boule vards and sterility. The West Side is the great inferiority complex. It's a sort of back yard for the city — an alley thru which the groceries are brought. In spite of the fact that our lively state's attorney, whose home is constantly guarded against Indian attacks, lives there, it hasn't had a first rate crime since Mr. O'Connor left town. They can't enforce the new curfew law be cause the police aren't out after nine-thirty. How completely Chicago's cosmo politanism has passed it by can be seen by its thousand church spires which still tower above its apart ment hotels and movie palaces. Occasionally some enterprising bootlegger places a biscuit in a vesti bule and blows the neighboring front porches into Oak Park, but the West Side sleeps on — save those on the front porches. Its only citizens of distinction are the buyer who re turned from Europe with Gertrude Ederle and thought that famous lady was kidding when she said she employed a nursing bottle while swimming the Channel, and the one police captain of unorthodox ethnic qualifications, Captain Goldberg of Austin. It's a great rest cure. But be sure you get west of Halsted Street. Broadminded Pedagogues After reading in the Daily News one of Mr. Glenn Frank's ridic ulous articles in which he generously expounds the obvious theory of minding one's own business, we wonder why Mr. Frank, in his sweep as President of the University of Wisconsin, has not injected into the minds of one or two of his crawl- ing-through-the- window deans a bit of this admirable advice. As we remember the University of Wisconsin, the actions of the deans of men and women carried not the foggiest suspicion that the pow ers higher up had instructed them about anything as unmethodistic as minding one's own business. Now, however, since Mr. Frank has committed himself so freely, we feel that the deans — at least at the University of Wisconsin — will slip out of the preglacial skirts in which they have been hob bling for the past several years and really concern themselves with one or two constructive policies. No doubt it is more diverting for them to sit in their offices and draw men tally distorted pictures of the Satur- nalian moments in which the stu dents might be wallowing. Live in Your Automobile — It's the Thing to Do Men have been said to carry coals to Newcastle, to gild re fined gold, to paint the lily, but it has remained for a Chicago motorist to install an electric fan in his auto mobile. If he could manage a radio, and a kitchenette attachment, his arrange ment would be complete — provided he didn't have a Ford. In that case, of course, it would be necessary to have pink silk curtains on all the windows and some artificial poppies in the side holders before he could really feel at home. TWECWICAGOAN Page Emily Post Today we saw the perfect gentle man. Two very jolly men were talking and smoking on the corner of Erie Street and Michigan Boule vard. They were having a delight ful time. One of the men finished his cigarette and tossed it carelessly over his shoulder. It landed in the eye of a passerby. The guilty man walked to his vic tim and muttered something that sounded like a cross between "I'm very sorry" and "What were you do ing in my way?" All the time the oppressed one pulling cigarette ashes from his eye. Then the perfect gentleman turned to the ashes-in-the-eye man and said, "Just a minute, sir; there's still a slight smudge on your nose." The Celebrities' Index And when it comes to newspapers, certainly you must admit that the conservative Chicago Tribune spares neither ink, illustrations nor superlatives to keep posted its read ers as to the exact condition — an au thentic breathing chart — of every moving picture, theatrical, athletic and criminal celebrity in the coun try. It makes a specialty of all gastro- , nomic irregularities, pulmonary abnormalities, dental disorders, and last words. We suggest that they change their slogan to "The World's Greatest Thermometer." TUECUICAGOAN 7 Another "Moron? Here's a new slant on the City Hall for you. We've heard many things about that building, but this one, to us, at least, is new. The stenographer was called to the telephone. A voice on the other end said, "Marie, I've lost my dress. Send me one right away, will you please ?" "Lost your dress?" Marie said. "Why, where are you?" "I'm at the City Hall. Will you send me a dress right away?" What does a person do in a case like that ? The Gay Lady STRANGE things happen on busses. Recently we saw a young lady with two suspicious jugs under her arms talking to the conductor. "I want to get off at the Fish Fans' Club", she told him, "and be sure it's the Fish Fans' Club and not the Boat Club". The bus came to a stop and she arose. Of course we can't say what was in the jugs, but we know it wasn't vinegar. "Are you sure this is the Fish Fans' Club? she asked. "Yes, this is the Fish Fans' Club", the conductor assured her. "All right then, I'll get off. But I wanted to make sure. The last time I came out here I went to the Boat Club and didn't know it un til the next day". And she tucked her two jugs un der her arms, took a long, last look at the moon, and walked east. Tombstones Surely you've noticed the poor weeping breweries along the I. C. tracks — you know, kind of red and very dusty, and one of them has a tower clock which is so delight fully slow that all the loop-bound workers think they're going to get to the office on time. Sure, every body remembers them — particularly if he lives on the South Side. • Just what is behind the walls (and something must be there to make the clock run as it does) we cannot say; but certainly the expression on the eastern exposures is sufficiently dis arming to smear the suspicions of the meanest officer in the city. Please understand that we're not crying for a glass of beer — not right now, at least — but surely you'll say those buildings look sad. After all, you know, when the war was over, most of the ammunition factories were torn down. AND speaking of libations, it might be interesting to know whether Mr. Cross, the self-ap pointed authority of co-educational misgivings, thinks his recent tirade on the mid-western university girl will get him a step farther in Episcopalianism. Perhaps it will, who knows? Unfortunately the Episcopalian religion doesn't place much faith in the Holy Ghost. And Mr. Cross, we fear, is going to need the strength of some fiery and ghostly power^o wiggle grace fully from the wringer in which he has so willingly and so eagerly placed his righteous nose. COLLEGE, these days, is de manding much attention. And if the co-ed does all the things of which Mr. Cross accuses her, just think what the men who went to noncoeducational schools have missed. We fear Mr. Cross has taken The Poor Nut too seri ously. ANYWAY, everybody is going away to school this week; and in about a month or two many of them will be coming home. Sore eyes, fallen arches, weak hearts, hay fever, and — above all — sinus trouble have done their share to keep the students in col lege. Can't anybody think of something new? WHERE Western Avenue crosses the river, we saw something unique. Against the commercialism of the district, standing out like black pictures on white walls, are several river house boats. Nitches are dug in the river bank to enable a more convenient approach. So the house boats must have been there for a few days at least. A jagged skyline of chimneys and peaked roofs, screened and softened by smoke — and three peaceful, almost Chinese looking house boats. We wonder if one of them could have been Mrs. Streeter's. Perhaps Mrs. Streeter has decided again to claim her rights to the gold coast. Is It That Bad? ON the corner of State and Madison Streets the other day we saw two little colored girls. They were, apparently, twins. They wore bright red dresses and brown shoes. Their eyes were like barrel hoops. It was just getting dark, and all the street lights had not been turned on. One of the girls looked up and down the street ; she was very disappointed. "It's darker than Thirty-fifth Street", she said. "Why, it's even darker than Cot tage Grove", the other added. We hope they were wrong. It's bad, yes, but surely it isn't so dark as Thirty-fifth and Cottage Grove. 8 TI4EGI4IGAGOAN The fire department, as usual, has been living up to its reputation to do the silly thing. The other day the force went out for a little joy ride, blew the sirens and stepped on the accelerator, and, accidentally, killed a few people. Just what would have happened had there been a fire is certainly difficult to predict. The War's Over — At Least It Should Be IT was late, and the busses had stopped running. We boarded a street car at North Avenue and started south. We clanked through the clammy, cold streets until we passed Chicago Avenue, and then realizing we were nearing our number, we asked the conductor to let us off at Erie Street. "Erie Street?" he replied. "Why We don't stop at Erie Street. We haven't stopped there since the war". So we rode to Ontario Street, and walked back one block. And all the way we wondered what war he meant. Grab a Bench, Dearie HAVE you ever witnessed the floorwashing at the LaSalle Street Station? It happens — oc casionally. We saw it one night about eleven o'clock and we weren't very smart about it either. People who live in Beverly Hills and Normal Park and other prairie stops along the Rock Island sub urban line are apt to know what to expect. There is no signal to warn you; you'll have to take your own chances. It all happens about as expectedly as an earthquake in Hawaii. Out of the thick peace of several babies crying, the bellow ing of a station man calling train departures, and the clicking of hard heels across the stone floor, an army of curiously but uniformly shaped fat men appears. FIRST they splash several bar rels of soapy water on the floor. Then the little fat men squirm about with mops, like skat ing bugs on a pond — the object being to get as much of the water as possible in the air. They have about them the casualness of tired Indians. Cleaning the floor, so far as we could determine, was inci dental, the main idea was to afford the poor scrub men a little fun. It was very interesting to see them play. Get as much water as pos sible on the mop, then swing it away up in the air and crack it against the floor. No doubt the poor men work hard all day and really should have some sort of di version. You'll have no difficulty in pick ing the people who commute on the Rock Island. As soon as the first splash is heard, you'll see them standing on the seats, the chairs, the radiators, the tables — anything to get off the floor. And those who through bitter inexperience remain tranquilly seated must pay the pen alty of visiting a bootblack, a cloth ing store, a hat shop — a whole de partment store, in fact. The railroad companies will have their fun ; you can't cheat them out of it. And if they can't have an ex- That the Chicago authorities should guard our children is, we suppose, ethical. And if they decide that a curfew is the one adequate method to perform that slight duty, then we must have the curfew. As a matter of fact, so far as we can see, it makes no difference whether we have one or not ; a child can't hear a curfew in the movies. But certainly it is embarrassing to the women. We just heard — unau- thentically, of course — that Mrs. Edna Wallace Hopper was accosted by a truant officer for appearing on the boulevard after nine o'clock. A woman can't carry her birth certif icate pinned on her coat. Although we did see a young woman on Wil son Avenue with an unbelievable amount of information on her rain slicker — everything but her tele phone number and her dental x-ray. The Subtlety of Mr. Hearst's News papers Soothes the City PROBABLY the most ridicu lous exhibition of the week must, as usual, go to the Herald- Examiner for the diseased manner in which it covered the recent rail road wreck. Debutantes' parties mixed with pictures of amputated legs, pic tures of disemboweled anatomy, and x-ray plates showing crushed bones. Enormous headlines glori fying the tragedy, reeking and dripping with gore. We wonder how the Herald-Ex aminer ever overlooked printing the story in blood. Surely nothing else was missing. Personally, we feel that both Mr. Hearst's little newspapers are to be taken about as seriously as the Tiny Taxigram. TUECWCAGOAN 9 The Sympathetic Policeman ON Adams Street in the loop an excavation is being made for a new skyscraper. Down in the mud several men were work ing. The sand hogs were busy. Piles were being pounded in the earth. Men were splashing about in the dirty water. It was cold, and it was very damp down in the hole. A fat man with a French Lick black and white suit and a purple necktie sat in a Rolls-Royce watch ing the men work. The expression on his face barely changed. He smoked long cigars and watched the excavators work. Then he turned to the policeman who was standing near his car and said : "I love to sit here and watch those men 'work; you know I en- joy it". "I don't doubt it", replied the officer, "I don't doubt it. But what do you mean by parking here ? Get out right away, get out, before I pinch you". And the officer stood with his hands on his hips, until the Rolls- Royce pulled away, then he turned to look at the workmen wallowing in the muddy water. The Pioneer AN old man sitting on a bench in Grant Park looking at the Michigan Boulevard skyline. He was very old ; his eyes were blur red and faded; and he had about him the uncertain look of a snow man in the sun. "You see that there building I'm pointin' at? That's the oldest on the boulevard". The man next to him disagreed. "I don't think so", he said. "What do you know about it? What does a young fellow like you know about it? I tell you it is. It is the oldest. I helped build it, and we used to go in swimming every noon right in front of it. It's the oldest building on the boulevard, I tell you, and everybody thought the man was crazy when he built it. So did I." Chicago's smartest fashion editor returns home at 6:04 and finds himself in afternoon clothes. The Hurdy-Gurdy Man T~*VERY day he serenades us. He •*— ' has thick, brown skin, and he wears a curious hat that does not cover his head. About twice a week he has about him an impish gaiety that suggests, faintly, Hal sted Street wine. He is very old ; so is his hurdy- gurdy. Sometimes his wife comes with him, and they take turns grind ing the organ. Sometimes she is very happy, too. When they feel good they play "Titina" and "La Paloma" over and over. Today he came alone. It had just begun to get dusky. Down Michigan Boulevard people, were hurrying from offices. The busses were packed, and they trudged along like restless elephants. There was a thin fog about the lights. From the prairies came a strange wind that suggested autumn ; it played with the papers on our desks and made the office girl stare cata- leptically at the wall. Our hurdy- gurdy man played three of his favor ite dreary-day rolls: "The Merry Widow Waltz," "Venetian Moon," and "Who's Sorry Now?" You see, he takes them chrono logically, and he tries very hard to keep up with the popular songs. —THE EDITORS 10 TWEGI4IGAGOAN The Cat: "What a fuss these girls make about love. My love is an alley hydrant. I can turn it on or off, hot or cold, just as I wish. And I never talk it over the next morning." TI4EGWIGAGQAN n P&R/ONAL PORTRAIT/ IT was back in the days when political con ventions were con ventions. Chicago's his toric Coliseum was hous ing the delegated Democrats. It may have been the one at which the ill-fated Alton Brooks Parker was nominated, the current chron icler cannot be certain. In any event, it was in those young years of the century which tagged along so primly on the heels of the Naughty Nineties. The party was getting good. Bands were blaring, as only a Democratic band can blare. Root ers were rooting, the eagle was screaming, ice-water was flowing and three women had already fainted in the gallery. The Dem ocratic donkey was braying, horses, white and dark, were neighing, the delegates from Maine were throwing peanuts at the delegates from California, New Jersey was making a "de monstration", and there were rumors of stampedes and counter - stampedes. When, of a sudden — A young Chicago law yer, with the face of a lad at high school commence ment or first communion, rammed his hands deep in to his trouser pockets, slouched his right shoulder from W. by S. W. to N. W. by N. and sauntered non chalantly down the aisle. There were a few stray cheers from the Illinois seats, for there were one or two from the home town who thought they knew their man. But "Who is he ?" was the query that ran about the floor. Mounting the rostrum, the young man in question gave his audience one half- quizzical, half - insulting The Man of Destin Emotional Vagabond look, reached inside his coat (he wore no waistcoat) and gave his suspenders one deliberate hunch, then — slowly, diabolically — he hunched that right shoulder again. Instantly, the convention was in a tumult. Men leaped on their seats and their neighbor's straw hat, the well known rafters rang with phar yngitis and more women fainted. Of course, another demonstration had to be staged, Arizona falling in behind the Philippine Islands; and when it was over — WELL, whoever it was who had been about to be made President (so far as the Democrats were concerned) might as well have gone off and entered an At lantic City bathing contest — he y Clarence Darrow would have had a better chance. Clarence Darrow — for the young chap with the fatal shoulder-droop was he — had simply shrug ged him out of political existence. And that, dear reader, is why the present reporter is unable to tell you even his name. The fact that Mr. Parker was nominated proves nothing. From that time on, Mr. Darrow became something of a national figure. True, he never got sent to Congress, possibly because he used the English language a little too well. And he was not exactly adept at getting up a "Cross of Gold" speech that would make the Chautauqua sisters sob. Mr. Dar row professed to have no illusions about anybody or anything, not even about himself; and who ever heard of a Congressman without his rubbers? Nevertheless, these more or less United States did hear of him, though not, it is to be feared, very favorably. As a matter of fact, quite the re verse, after he had got mix ed up in a few little affairs like Eugene Debs and the Pullman strike, "Big Bill" Haywood and the United Mine Workers. He came to be known as the bad boy of the bar, and it was re garded as a confession of guilt to walk into any courtroom with Clarence Darrow as one's attorney. And when he got Leopold and Loeb off the gallows with a speech that will go down in the nation's legal and oratorical archives — there were a lot of folks that knew he would go to the devil some day, long be fore Mr. Scopes came to Dayton. Defending an evolutionist! It was a fit- 12 TUECmGAGOAN ting end for the greatest "criminal" lawyer in the country. But this is getting ahead of our story. Before his appearance at the Coliseum, Mr. Darrow, to his townsmen, had been what he is to day, what he has always been, the old-fashioned hard boiled country lawyer, who cocked his feet on the desk, read Ingersoll and spat at the ceiling. It is a type of which we Americans are fond. The pre sent writer does not happen to re member whether Mr. Darrow chews or not, but if he doesn't, he ought to. There is a cavity in his left cheek that was just built for a wad of cut plug. He was careless enough, also, to look, as well as be, the part. His slouchy, half-Bo hemian attire was a part of the picture. NOW, this Darrow had the re putation of being "a power ful man with a jury". When he got up in front of twelve tried men and true, slouched that right shoulder, snapped those inevitable suspenders and began to drawl out his homely, sarcastic animadver sions on the case, he could make the defendant's peers do just about what he wanted them to do. His courage, not to say his audacity, in the presence of a jury was almost unbelievable. He was, perhaps — and is — the only lawyer living who dared get up and tell the men in the box that he didn't believe in punishing anybody for anything, at any time, under any circum stances. It was his boast that he was always to be found on the de fense, never on the side of the pro secution. Crime, he insisted (see his books on the subject) was a disease and criminals ought to be treated as sick persons. And he made the jury like it! At least, they liked his drawl and his sus penders. In the Leopold - Loeb trial, for example, many said that Darrow knew better (as what lawyer would not?) than to take his chance with a jury. But a fellow member of the bar, after listening to Dar- row's "mitigating circumstances" plea to Judge Caverly, exclaimed: "Why, I believe he could have got even these boys off with life im prisonment, if he could have had the last word with the jury." It looked at one period as though Mr. Darrow might have a political career ahead of him. He was spe cial traction attorney under Mayor Dunne, but he resigned the post. The late John P. Altgeld looked upon him as a "man of destiny", but his destiny lay with jurors, rather than with voters. His early affiliations are interesting, nevertheless, as indicating the tem per of the man. He has always been a radical within the ranks, which is, perhaps, the very best and most effective sort of radical. The more militant revolters may look on Darrow as the Catholics for years regarded Chesterton : as a "provi dence outside the church". But to the ordinary community, which is not, after all, so very far removed from Main Street, Mr. Darrow is quite radical enough. A man who doesn't believe that even a cold-blooded murderer should be hanged ! This is a touchy point to many, who look upon him as a shrewd, conniving criminal lawyer and a positive peril to societv. What they do not know is, that Mr. Darrow is the victim of his own emotions. THE present writer recalls, while the Leopold-Loeb trial was on, a certain midsummer night in the home of Jacob Loeb, uncle of "Dicky". The house was filled with reporters, and in wandering about the house, this one came up on Mr. Darrow, also looking like a lost soul. His eyes were tired, very tired, and the droop to his shoulders, for once, was not affect ed. We sank down upon a seat. I knew that, the next Sunday, Mr. Darrow was to engage in his usual debate and deliver his usual speech on Pessimism, Is Life Worth While ? or something of the sort. I had heard that speech a number of times. "Tell me, Mr. Darrow", the re porter began. "Your creed, you say, is pessimism, Life is not worth while. Then, why do you fight so hard for the lives of these two youths, whose life-promise is not exactly a brilliant one at best?" Mr. Darrow sighed. "My emotions", he said, "have not caught up with my intellect." It had, somehow, a confessional ring. It was almost annihilating- ly revelatory. Mr. Darrow's audi ence — made up, for the most part, of half-baked and half-educated cul ture-hounds — will swear to you that he is an intellectual. Don't be lieve them ! It is not his emotions which have failed to catch up with his intellect. It is, rather, his in tellect — You get the point. ALL this is, by no means, to disparage Mr. Darrow. He has many undeniable and valuable qualities : courage, sincerity and a certain clear-headedness and com mon horse sense, when he can keep free of his entangling emotions. His emotions, the truth is, have been his downfall. He has tried his hand at litera ture, too. He would prefer to spend his time, he tells us, writing stories. But he has a contempt for "art". It takes too long, for a man bursting with something to say, and it isn't worth the time it takes. The close of his own story, "Farm- ington", is significant: "All my life I have been planning and hoping and thinking and dreaming and loitering and wait ing. All my life I have been get ting ready to begin to do some thing worth while. I have been waiting for the Summer and wait ing for the Fall ; I have been wait ing for the Winter and waiting for. the Spring; waiting for the night and waiting for the morning; wait ing and dawdling and dreaming, until the day is almost spent and the twilight is close at hand." This is Clarence Darrow, the emotional vagabond and perhaps the most lovable man in Chicago. Belonging to the era of the barber- pole and the naughty, naughty days of Ingersoll, he is a refresh ing oasis in a desert of skyscrapers. Why, he's so old-fashioned he even believes in evolution ! —SAM PUTNAM TWCCI4ICAG0AN 13 MU/ICAL NOW The Silly Season In London, where the slogan never degenerates into the label, they have a way of dubbing that time when nothing of social, politi cal, musical or other significance ever happens, the "silly season." It means that "everybody" (that is, the everybody of Michael Arlen) is out of town, and the papers reek of sea serpents and such like convenient, if unconvincing, fillers. The interim between the closing of Ravinia and the opening of the Chicago Civic Opera can only be considered musically in this class. One is at a loss where to turn, and becomes inevitably reminiscent and inconsequential. On the reminiscent side comes one's reiterated convic tion of the dynamic stylistic outlook of such artists as Johnson and Gen tle, whose aura of intellectual un derstanding is ever developing. And then one challenges the enterprise of the impre sarios. Why, for instance, doesn't some one who seeks unusual talent of the highest order get Dor othy Silk to come to Chicago? Dorothy Silk has a most lovely so prano voice, has given a superb ac counting of herself not only in the Bach Passion at Manchester, Eng land, but she has given entrancing programs of Orlando Gibbon and such like stuff. She is a versatile and most accomplished stylist in song. It is really a mistake to imagine that the public is altogether what it appeared to the astute vision of that super-showman, Mr. Barnum. The public is as mysterious as any other blind force ; no one can ever predi cate where, like the cat, it is going to jump. It may, and most certainly will, if it is told of any danger mark ahead, shy from the artist who ven tures to produce unknown classics demanding a maximum of undivided post-prandial attention. On the other hand, think of the ultra modernists. When the Flonzaleys, most melodi ous of Mozart interpreters, placed a certain strident, even garish, score on their polite desks, the public put its fingers in its ears and said that the musicians or the music (but cer tainly not the public) must be mad. But today ears have grown accus tomed to lack of harmony, and to the mechanically arranged discords which build a cubist musical temple. And that very same public endures whole symphonies violating all the rules of accepted academic harmony with a calm pathetic front. Of course in Mr. Stock we are lucky enough to have a genius in the ar rangement of programs ; an optim ist, possibly a musical homeopath, for his doses of the ultra modern are plentifully interspersed with Beetho ven and the masters of the strictest tradition. Yet he nobly does his part to broaden the musical appreciation of his hearers. It is not impossible for the same palate to tolerate cavi are and the uninspiring roasted lamb. It is something like the tossing of a coin to anticipate a winter musical outlook. Impresarios, knowing the enormous impetus due to mere curiosity, are reluctant to divulge overmuch of the contents of the operatic or symphonic larder. Yet there's always the sporting chance of a Raisa, or something equally astounding, that may make one tremendously glad. There's al ways the promise (and this time it might be a fulfillment) of the native opera that is to make one think. By the way, the Deems Taylor and Edna St. Vincent Millay collabora tion may be an immensely interest ing combination. Not, alas ! another Gilbert and Sullivan . . . that is a unique gift of the high gods ... no encores. But it will be well worth watching. Deems Taylor's "Sixteen Twenty" song is quite one of the loveliest things there is, — when it's done as he meant it to be. Curiously I heard an unknown amateur singer turn it inside out once, and that un known amateur (being for once true to the authentic meaning of his name) was not platform struck; merely keen on the joy of interpret ing, and pined not at all for the fury of the spotlight. This is mentioned, because, after all, it is still the season of the out size trout ; in short, the Silly Season. —LILLIAN MacDONALD Sunset The prinked horizon Pulls a pink shawl To her shoulders — Tigihter, Tighter, Till only the fringe shows Flaming On the hill. 14 TWEGWIGAGOAN NOT long ago Claude and I thought it would be pretty nice to delve into the history of Chicago. Claude is a great, one for delving anyway. Sometimes, in fact, I call him "a regular devil for delv ing" and he just grins and says, "Well, I guess that's right." Claude said he knew where the oldest settler in Chicago lived, so we called on him to gather data from his reminiscences. This old gentleman is a Mr. Cyril J. Muttle- sprocket and he came west from Buffalo in 1798 when he was only three years old which would make him about one hundred thirty years old which is very interest ing. I asked him to what he at tributed his longevity and he re plied that he attributed his longev ity to the habit he had formed of always breathing deeply of the good, clean Chicago air. Well, I thought that was a pretty nice tri bute to Chicago and so did Claude. WHEN we asked Mr. Muttle- sprocket for ^ information concerning early Chicago he re plied that he was sorry, but he couldn't remember much about his early days in this locality, being as how he had been "dinged-on- the-conch" (Ojibwa for socked-in- the-head) during the Fort Dear born massacre in 1812 and hadn't been very observing since that time. He told us, too, that he wasn't really the oldest citizen of Chicago, though he was the oldest settler. He went on to explain that out in Washington Park we would find a certain old Indian named Calvin Moralesi who was in reality the oldest person in Chi cago, but not the oldest settler, be cause he had never really become settled. "You see," Mr. Muttlesprocket went on, "Calvin Moralesi came to Chicago in 1788, fully ten years be fore I did, and went to Washing ton Park to watch a ball game one Glad Tidings of Chicaoo Earl y Professor Purple and his man Claude unearth some amazing records of Early Chicago Sunday and couldn't find his way out. In fact, he never has found his way out, so he is still there. Usually he is wandering around trying to find an exit or picking up bits of food left by picnickers for his winter's supply. "Occasionally I take a run out to see old Cal. But it wasn't till last month that I ever thought of leading him out of the parkT And then when I broached the matter to the South Park Commission, they couldn't see it. Said he'd get restless in new surroundings. So I didn't carry out my idea. "But if you go out to Washing ton Park, you'll find Cal, probably in front of his wigwam or teepee as some calls 'em. And you just tell Cal that Old Doug Muttle sprocket sent you and ask if you can see his diary that he's been keeping since he come to town." We thanked the garrulous yet entertaining old fellow for his val uable information and sallied forth from his home with many hearty goodbyes. "Well, so long, boys," Mr. Mut tlesprocket replied to our adieux, "Write me when you get work." Mr. Calvin Moralesi, Gentleman, who bears a grudge against Joliet and Marquette w E boarded an omnibus and reached Washington Park in fair time. And what a pretty park it was too ! After some hours of wandering about Claude sighted smoke over towards the northeast corner of the park and we made our way to the point from which it seemed to arise. In ay little while we came in sight of a gaudily painted teepee in front of which a rufous-skinned, dried up old man was sitting smoking a hand rolled cigarette and fanning himself with a maga zine — a green maga zine — which the ever- sapient Claude remarked looked as tonishingly like the American Mercury. In fact it was the Am erican Mercury. That counted ten for Claude. "Are you, sir, Mr. Calvin Mor alesi?" I asked hopefully. "And that I am, sir," replied the old man in perfect Ojibwa. "What!" cried Claude excitedly, "What! Are you Calvin Moral esi? Old Conway Moralesi's boy, Cal?" "I am," answered the old man simply, "And have you ever heard the one about the two travelling salesmen from Buffalo?" "And are you really the oldest person in town?" asked Claude quickly and in Ojibwa too. Claude could speak very excellent Ojibwa and did more often than not. And anyway he had heard the one about the two travelling salesmen. "Well, hardly that!" said the In dian indignantly. "Why, man, I'm little more than a boy. I just came here in 1788 to get a little trout fishing on the lagoons and not, as many maintain, to observe a base ball game. But tell me, have you seen- Artists and Models? I want ed to go like anything, but I'll be damned if I could get out of this park. I have an awfully tough time getting away usually. Haven't been in town for some years now." "How old were you when you came?" the thoughtful Claude asked. "Well, now, that's hard to say," responded Calvin. "But you know my name really isn't Calvin Mor alesi. Not a bit of it. That is, rWtCWIGAGOAN my Indian name isn't; it*s God frey-Gay-Turtle." "What a nice name," I said. "Yes, isn't it?" said Calvin or Godfrey. "But, say, would you rather be a man or a horse?" "To be perfectly frank with you," I replied, "I'm sure I'd rather be a man." "And so would I," said Godfrey, "And so would I. But you know, some people like crowds." "That counts ten for you," said Claude when the laughter had died down. IT was then that I noticed some markings which appeared to be tattooing on Godfrey's broad chest. Upon closer inspection they prov ed to be initials : J. M. & L. J., 1674. "What are those initials on your chest?" I asked and Claude inter preted. "Those ? Why, those are the in itials of Pere Marquette and his toady, Louis Joliet and the date is that of the year we met" said Godfrey. "Oh, you knew Marquette and Joliet then?" asked Claude. "Well, rather!" replied Godfrey. "Say, I remember one time Lou, who was always trapping so he could get together enough gold to send a pretty little Ojibwa wench to Paris to be educated, — well, Lou said to me, 'Turtle, what do you think my little friend will get out of Paris anyway?' And I said, 'Well, Lou,' I said, 'she certainly ought to get the golden apple any way.' She was a pretty little minx if they ever was one." 6tT)UT do tell us how you came JL/ by those initials?" Claude fired at him. "Well, the two of 'em, Marquette and Joliet, found me one day when I was fishing in the She-Kag-ong River and asked me my name. Un suspectingly I told them I was the Turtle, whereupon both of 'em jumped me, threw me on my back, hogtied me and carved their ini tials and the date on my chest. I really never could bring myself around to forgive them for it." "Yes, sir, that was a pretty mean sort of trick," observed Claude. "Yes, sir, that was darned low, wasn't it, Professor?" ' "Well, yes," I agreed, "I'd call it a nasty trick to play on a fellow." "Anyway we all agree that it was a trick then, don't we?" said God frey. "But are you sure," I said, "that those fellows were really Mar quette and Joliet? For if they were you'd be a pretty old man." "Say, listen here," cried the chief, "I'm not an old man. Any one who is the least bit observing can see I'm hardly more than a boy. Claude, you can tell, can't you?" "Well, I should say I can" said Claude soothingly. "Tell us what you learned in school today, chief?" "But do you think those two were Marquette and Joliet?" I persisted. "Possibly they weren't. Possibly they weren't," confessed the chief, then added brightly, "Maybe they were two other fellows." "Maybe they were Robert de la Salle and Robert Lafollette," sug gested Claude. "No," said the chief. "You can see the initials are J. M. and L. J." "Maybe they were Gene Markey and Lewellyn Jones," said Claude. "It's hard to tell who they were," Godfrey said at last. "What do you think of the Am erican Mercury?" I asked chang ing the subject. "Well, what do you think of it?" the chief said quickly. That, I think, is the best answer to that question that I have ever re ceived. Claude is of the same opinion. —DONALD PLANT (EDITOR'S NOTE : In our next issue will appear the remaining chapters of this all-too-short his tory of early Chicago in which Pro fessor Purple assisted by the able Claude will get down to business.) 16 TWEGUIGAGOAN SEE MY BIG BLUE RIBBON Sophie Tucker, Ted Lewis and Lester Allen discuss the advisability of burlesquing The Shanghai Gesture for Mr. LaMairefs Affairs "The Dole's too tame" says Soph, "see my big blue ribbon." TUt CHICAGOAN 17 THIS whole confusion which Chi cago humorously calls its theatre is to be taken about as seriously as the Prince of Wales' examinations at Oxford. There seems to be on the part of the producers, as we before insist ed, an unconquerable inability to secure an adequate number of first- rate productions. True, there are some admirable attractions in town, but certainly there are a number which, so far as Chicago is concerned, can start right now on their trip to Little Rock, Arkan sas and Herrin, Illinois. "Stay on Broadway" seems to be the cry, and any actor or actress whose demonstration even approxi mates competence is very apt to be transferred to Broadway, where theatrical people insist they find everything which makes life tol erable. "Castles in the Air" has changed casts so many times, and each change has been so unfortunate, that it is futile to elaborate. Now that Edna Hibbard has de serted the Chicago cast of "Gen tlemen Prefer Blondes", the play, for the most part, must depend up on its multitude of Freudian in ferences and its one Lane Bryant joke. The show needed the healthi ness of Miss Hibbard. Miss Wal ker is apt to be unmissed. II <7he TUEATRE Miss Heineman, one of the prin cipals in "Love 'Em and Leave 'Em", has returned to New York. She was in Chicago four days. CERTAINLY "Treat 'Em Rough" offers nothing new to the theatre ; there is nothing ori ginal in the presentation or the characters, there is little new in the interpretations, and, unques tionably, there is nothing unusual in the theme. The play, however, is enjoyable, despite the fact that the plot is very slight and, consequently, sev eral rather ridiculous fill-ins de picting domestic disruptions of the Irish and Italians are used to stretch the action through the re quired number of hours. The night court of Tomasso Salvatore, for instance, which, doubtless, is in tended to stress the philanthropy and kindness of the "Big Boss" as they call him, is unpleasant and unnecessary. It accomplishes nothing more than an uncalled for amount of noise. Mr. Ricciardi does not need fill-ins to help him portray his part. Curiously enough, he is not the stage-proper ty Italian which Mr. Skinner and Mr. Beban insist is the only true Italian (although he does suggest the old man in ''They Knew What They Wanted"). But it is a relief to feel reasonably assur ed that the Italians are not a one- type race. Mr. Ricciardi attains several excellent moments; and al though his climaxes seen some what too emotional, it is possible to check that fault to the race rath er than to the interpretation. MISS Tobin's Irish hardly smacks of the trans-Atlan tic. There is about her role much of the angels and sugar of "Peg 'O My Heart." Her stage pre sence is quite fine, and although she utters the usual amount of platitudes with which heroines are usually endowed, she really man ages, by her casualness, to sell one or two of the less shop-worn ones. Allan Dinehart's role, desnite the fact that it reaches two fair cli maxes, is, because of its obvious ness, uninteresting; it is too sopho- morically insincere to be otherwise. From the moment that he knocks down the first chorus girl and an nounces his preglacial attitude to ward women, the stage is complete ly set for the one brave girl to enter and tame him. His love- making scenes are competent and. fortunately, not bloodvessel burst ing, although he and Miss Tobin do lapse into the musical comedy and spurt about building little houses, with gardens and children 18 TWE CHICAGOAN The Jolly Last Supper THE APOSTLES GET - A GOOD LAUGH - — which offspring, each lovemaker insists, must look like the other. Thomas McLarnie as Father Flynn utters enough religious plat itudes to shake the faith of the en tire Democratic party. AS stated before, the play is not original, it is in no way amaz ing, it has its share of awkward mo ments (for instance, the faith of Tony Barudi, who left behind him an army of conquered — but unsat isfied — chorus girls, is completely shattered by the slightest bit of Irish jargon about a woman's body being conquered by man but never her mind), and, finally, the play is not convincing. It is, however, entertaining, and it manages to keep the audience in their seats until the final movie clinch releases the curtain. U jVTONGO" is another local col- J\ or drama of black Africa. If you haven't seen "White Cargo", "Aloma of the South Seas" and the half hundred other plays dealing with Episcopalean young men who must go to the tropics to realize that the theses of Freud, Stekel and Havelock Ellis are actually based on the behavior of man under stressed, and sometimes misinter preted, conditions, you might like "Kongo". Its purpose is to imply — rather vividly in fact — that a dusky maid en with abdominal irregularities that would damn her in this coun try can cause as much havoc in a camp of lonely white men as any girl from the Follies. Swan Song I want just one more precious gift Ere I grow old and grey, Just one more smile from Fate be fore My life sands ebb away, Just one more boon from woman hood Before my struggles cease. Yes, Central, you have guessed it — I want my number, please ! —Paul E. A SENESCENT gentleman who would have it known he is Late Victorian enter tained us one evening with tales of the adventures, divertissements and peccadillos of his youth of which only one yarn remains clear ly enough in our memory for us to recreate; there were so many of them. During a summer of the Sen suous Seventies our old gossip had bicycled through western England with a party of friends of which one was Sir Edward Burne-Jones, the romantic and decorative paint er. At a village in Hereford they came upon a country fair and stop ped to see the sights. While in specting the side-shows they en countered a marvelously tattooed lady. She was resplendent with patterns and pictures which seem ed to delight Sir Edward greatly. On the lady's arms were hearts, ships, flowers, quotations; on her legs were flags, faces, crests, chiro graphics ; while on her back was a picture which most pleased Burne- Jones, videlicet Leonardo's "The Last Supper". ONE afternoon, a half-decade later perhaps, Sir Edward rushed into our raconteur's London club, sought him out and asked him if he remembered the tattooed lady in the sideshow at the country fair they had visited in Hereford while on their bicycle tour. Sir Edward had remembered her name and had just read a notice that told of her being on exhibit at the Aquarium. He wanted his friend to accompany him on another visit to the lady. They went to the Aquarium and found their tattooed lady, but a half-decade had made some changes in her appearance. She had grown obese; and when they viewed her tattooed back whereon was Leon ardo's "Last Supper" they saw that all the apostles wore broad grins. — D. P. Play Something The neighbors have a phonograph— They play it in the hall — A piano in the living room, But wait, that isn't all. They uke the uke out on the porch. In the bath play on a comb, They sing in all the other rooms — Oh well, — God bless our home. — R. G. B. Dusk Song Two trees With new green, laughing leaves And twisted trunks, Sap-coated and thick-barked. . . . Two trees, Like worn old men With smiling eyes. —J. M. TI4ECJ4ICAGOAN 19 The middle west resounds with the thud of cleated shoe against inflated pigskin. Once again the call of the gridiron has brought forth hundreds of husky lads from the western conference universities and other big schools in these parts. Once again, while the leaves turn brown and the tepid breeze turns to the crisp, chilly wind of Indian summer, brawn and brain are pitted against each other on the chalked lined turf. It's going to be a great season. You can take your choice but the consensus of opinion is that the year will reach its climax when the Army and Navy elevens match skill and strength in the gigantic stadium on Chicago's lake front, Soldiers' Field, November 27. The cadets and mid dies will flock to Chicago for the event and the most potent question circulating among the gentlefolk of these regions is: "Where in Sam Hill can I get a ticket to the Army- Navy game?" We'll bite, where can you? There will be a couple of sights this year that may be downright funny. One should be the doings of the Michigan. Old Fielding Yost, under the Wolverine banner for a quarter of a century — it sounds like a deuced long time — will have most of his team back again, and anybody who saw Bennie Oosterbaan, Bo Molenda, and Benny Friedman, along with sundry others, knock their enemies flat can figure out just what the chances the Wol verines have. Of course, there is that blot on Michigan's career when Northwestern pushed the Wolverine machine through the mud at Sol diers' Field but, and even North western admits it, it couldn't have been done if they had played on land. JPORT/ The other funny sight will be the efforts of the Grand Old Man, Amos Alonzo Stagg, trying to make a football team out of a lot of riff raff at Chicago. Our one and only hat is off to the Old Man, however, and we apologize in advance for any dirty cracks, but one look at his ma terial and we feel that his life will riot have been spent in vain if he can get a respectable eleven out of that bunch. But Stagg has a habit of tak ing a gang of rotten prospects and moulding them into a team that can strike terror into the most formid able opponents. That's our apology. For some years Northwestern has been booted around from pillar to post, and from goal post to goal post. During our ram- blings in football a couple of years ago we made the dire prediction that one of these bright autumn days the Purple would rise up and smite down somebody worth while. It caused a hearty laugh among our colleagues. But we still contend that the day of the Purple is about due. This may be the day ; maybe not. Glenn Thistlethwaite, who has been trying for five years to build a team at Northwestern, is confident that he can show them something this year. Northwestern plays Indi ana twice, due to the general mixup at the schedule meeting last winter, and just to show what the Purple thinks of its prospects, Thistle thwaite has been credited with the remark that he wished he would play Chicago twice instead of In diana. The remark leads us to think that Northwestern is out to do dirt to the Maroons. For some seasons Chicago has considered Northwestern just another team on the schedule. This year Chicago will play the Purple at the new Northwestern stadium and the Purple is making big prepara tions for the entertainment of the Maroons. Chief among these preparations are Mr. Moon Baker and Mr. Tiny Lewis, who will do most of the ball lugging at Northwestern this fall. These two gentlemen know what it's all about and they'll probably tear up the sod running past' their oppo nents when the season gets well under way. There'll be some stern competition in the conference this fall. Most of it will come from Michigan, but Wisconsin, Illinois, Iowa, and Min nesota will have strong elevens in the field. The badgers will bear some watching. They have George Little for a coach and Little is the man who made good teams at Michi gan while Yost looked . on a few years ago. 20 TWECWICAGOAN It's a cinch that Bob Zuppke at Illinois won't be bothered by having Charley Pyle hanging around this fall, trying to steal any of his play ers. He hasn't any that good. Red Grange is chasing touchdowns at so much per yard and Zuppke, who doesn't like one-man teams — not much — is seeking somebody who can fill the shoes of Red. It will be quite a job. There are going to be some good games. Notre Dame, with Knute Rockne at the helm, goes to Minnesota on October 9, a pretty tough early season game for both teams. Ohio State travels to New York for an intersectional clash with Columbia on October 16, while the Maroons of Chicago will be mingled with the Red and Blue of a great Pennsylvania eleven at Franklin Field on the same date. Iowa and Illinois clash in a game that will have decided bearing on the so-called championship, at Ur- bana on October 16, while Minnesota and Michigan play the first game of their twin bill at Ann Arbor. The eyes of the middle western football world will be centered on the Michigan-Illinois game at Ferry Field, October 23. These great ri vals have much at stake. Michigan won last year, through Benny Fried man's educated toe, but it didn't atone for the flock of touchdowns that Red Grange plastered all over the Wolverines the year before. Penn comes to Illinois October 30 for one of the biggest intersectional frays of the season, and Michigan will be playing the Navy at Balti more the same date. Wisconsin and Michigan meet November 6, and Chicago and Northwestern go through their annual duel the week following. Yes, it's going to be a great year. The redoubtable Suzanne, queen of the courts, will play on American soil for the sec ond time in her career. Her first appearance was some years ago when she nearly lost to Molla Mal- lory, the sturdy Norsewoman. Su zanne suddenly decided that things were not to her liking and, with the imperturbable calm of the French under such circumstances, walked off the court, and defaulted. The stunt did not set so well with the American public, who want their athletes to be big, strong personages, doing or dying until the end. Such a business as Suzanne's was not within our so-called code of sport ethics. But now Suzanne is to play over here and Mr. Pyle will stand exultingly by while the turnstiles click as the erstwhile critical fans flock to see the French marvel push the ball around the court with Mary K. Browne. Suzanne will probably come to Chicago to play some time in Octo ber ; the exact date is still undecided, but no matter when she comes, Chi cago will turn out to see her. Mary K. Browne's action in turning professional sets a precedent in tennis annals. The plump little California miss evi dently feels that she has had her day. Miss Browne was national woman's champion during 1912, 1913, and 1914 and since then she has been second to Molla Mallory and Helen Wills. With a curtsey to Mary Browne, we feel that as a tournament player she has played her best tennis. She evidently thinks the same and is now going to capital ize her prowess on the courts by making the tour which Mr. Pyle fig ures will make him some lunch money, and which Suzanne figures will keep Papa Lenglen from a hard, bad winter. Mary K. Browne has played Su zanne four times this last season. That is, she has faced Suzanne four times across the net, two in singles, one in mixed doubles and once in women's doubles. The latter match was the only one which brought vic tory to Miss Browne, but she cer tainly learned a lot about Mile. Lenglen's game in those four meet ings, and will undoubtedly be able to turn her knowledge to good advan tage when they clash here. Unquestionably Mr. Pyle has made a good bargain in this pro tennis business, but be yond Suzanne he won't cut much of a figure. The gullible folk of this nation will pay to see Suzanne, just as they paid to see Red Grange man ufacture touchdowns, but Suzanne doesn't personify pro tennis any more than Red Grange is a typical football player. She is a personage, a colorful figure, the flashiest and most accurate tennis player the world has ever known with the pos sible exception of Bill Tilden. —KENNETH C. FRY TI4E CHICAGOAN 21 The Ninth Beatitude ARE you the lady?" asked the back door peddler. "I am." I drew myself up. Being the lady is the only way in which I have anything over Lillian. Lillian does my house work. Lillian wears chiffon stockings when she sweeps. When she has an afternoon off she takes an hour and a half to dress and fifteen min utes for self-criticism before a mirror. Lillian wore anklets four years ago. I was frowning over an enor mous hole that I was darning last Thursday when she flashed down the hall in her pale green silk en semble. Lillian has a charge ac count on Michigan Boulevard. "I suppose you'll want your money before you go out," I said. Thursday is pay day as well as a half-holiday. Lillian has Thurs day afternoon tea at Maillard's. Lillian nodded sadly. "Sure", she admitted, straightening her green Bangkok. Lillian buys her hats at smart little shops while I forage in department store base ments. Sixteen dollars passed from my utilitarian pocketbook to Lillian's gay vanity. I sadly watched it de part. I had contemplated going to see Harold Lloyd, but my ex chequer was so low that I ration alized and stayed home with a bor rowed book. I was depending on The Torrents of Spring to pass the time for me. IT was just as well that I stayed home, too, because at eight o'clock Lillian telephoned. Lillian speaks very rapidly, and she has a curious way of slighting pro nouns, and articles. "Sort of accident," she said. "Lost my pocketbook with all my money and my keys. Will you let me in? I ring the doorbell?" Lillian never gets excited. "Blessed are the Servants for they shall control the treasury, and wear chiffon hose when they sweep." I let her in prepared to comfort her. "Did you lose all your pay?" I asked gently. "I'll say I did Twenty-three dollars altogether." I tried to conceal my surprise. "What else did you have in your bag?" "Silver pencil, cute little comb, new double compact, trunk keys, door key." I remembered that five years ago I lost a two dollar bill. That happened just after I had denied myself a new novel and I have never ceased to regret that I did not buy the book before I got around to lose the money. "How did you lose your bag?" I asked in a tone of deep compas sion. "Getting out of taxi." I gasped at the single word, "taxi !" "Yes," said Lillian. "Look- 4 ed like rain." f i I THOUGHT of the count- /£¦ less hours I had spent \\\ under awnings and in drug \A 1 stores waiting for a sudden |\ ' shower to be over. I ll thought of the countless \W newspapers I had bought to ^^ shield my hats from the \l rain. My fellow-feeling for Lillian was not so great as it had been ; still I offered to lend her enough money to get through the week. "Like about three dollars," she said. That left my pocketbook nearly as flat as hers but at least it reviv ed my feeling of being in the same boat with Lillian. Money doesn't seem to worry Lillian. "Would you like some maga zines to read?" I asked. I thought she would be lonely the many evenings it would take her to save up all the money she had lost. "No thank you," she said, "don't care for magazines. Could you please give me door key? Go downtown to a show." I WAS grateful to that peddler who divined — goodness knows how — that I was the lady. That is the only way in which Lillian hasn't it over me. Lillian doesn't care if peddlers call her the lady or not. Her only worry is to make Thursday afternoons come sooner than they do. —RUTH G. BERGMAN The Sonnet of a Ghost Sweet, I shall haunt you, wander in your blood Long after my small image has been smashed. Some days I'll surge your body like a flood, II So can one mind be to an- j^ other lashed! <^h The slightest drollery, the V^A broadest quip H You'll savour with my er- ¦ rant sense of jest. ^ You can't put forth a curious ^^ fingertip, V But it shall register my tac- \^E tile zest. ^^ No living thing is lost. The 1^ books you read m You'll annotate in my vo- ' cabulary, So steeped are you in vapors of my creed A stubborn ghost like me is hard to bury; And whether you fly North or West or South, You'll taste my little laughter in your mouth. IONNE DeCOURCY 22 THE CHICAGOAN If, as the critic who branded "Torrents of Spring" with the epithet "plagiarism" suggested, Sherwood Anderson, Edna Saint Vincent Millay and a few others of the same school band together and attempt to kill Mr. Hemingway, he is more than welcome to seek shel ter out. here in Grasshopper Lodge. And that in spite of the fact that I take violent issue with Mr. Heming way when he infers that affectation is the keynote of Sherwood's style. Affectation may be the sin of other realists ; it is not of Sherwood. The stark, unembroidered realism of Sherwood's work is a perfectly nat ural reaction from a too long ex tended term of service at a copy desk in an advertising agency. But enough of defense of Sherwood's sincerity. This is a criticism of the Hemingway genre. There seems to be no limit to the effrontery of Mr. Heming way (he admits he wrote much of the book immediately after Paris luncheons, which, if we are to be lieve all these stories about Paris luncheons, explains his courage). He has tranquilly titled the first sec tion of his book, "Red and Black Laughter," although he waits until the end of chapter seven in part two before introducing the chuckles of the negro cook, chuckles evoked by the picture of Scripps O'Neil going "out into the night" with his tame bean-eating bird, and an elderly waitress whose name is Diana, and who is addicted to reading The Man chester Guardian. 3ook/- The Hysterical Spring To have a man and his wife jog along through life, or even through half a book, together, would be ask ing too much of an "impression" done in the Andersonian manner. Accordingly, exactly half an hour after Scripps takes the hand of the elderly waitress in his, and while not making her any rash promises, declares he has made her his wife by virtue of the simple ceremony of clasping her fingers and saying, "You are my woman," Mr. Heming way causes the open-minded bride groom to cast interested eyes upon Mandy, the younger waitress in the Petosky restaurant. So mellowly sympathetic was Mr. Hemingway rendered by the luncheon with its conti nental liquid accompaniments that he not only spared Diana's life — in addition he gave her Scripp's tame bird to console her for the loss of Scripps himself. As for Yogi Johnson, Scripps' pal at the Petosky pump factory, his life is considerably brightened by the Indian squaw who makes a dramatic if unconventional entrance to the restaurant clad in the manner of Gungha Dhin, save that the squaw wears merely a papoose behind, and the toes of her shabby moccasins be fore. The picture of Diana O'Neil chastely shielding her eyes from the scandalous sight by holding The American Mercury before her face is especially choice when one recalls that Mr. Hemingway admiringly dedicated "Torrents" to H. L. and S. Stanwood Mencken. In due course of time, Yogi, shedding his garments one by one, accompanies the squaw down the railroad tracks. Behind the unusual couple walk two Indians, one the husband of the squaw. As Yogi casts aside his raiment, the Indians stolidly retrieve the discarded gar ments, agree to "sellem Salvation Army," and hurry back to town. Yogi and his lady friend are left to plod on alone, au naturel. "Once a clown, always a clown." In his clowning, Mr. Hemingway has been exceptionally successful. Will he be contented to continue clowning? We wonder. Perhaps he has stepped into a role he will re gret; we hope not, for before he washes off his white paint we want to see him present an "impression" of a Wright romance done in the Glynn manner. We feel that Mr. Leacock will be forced to look to his laurels. As for the gesture of supreme im pertinence with which "a very beau tiful thing" punctuates the pages of "Torrents," does one take offense when Miss Janis drops her voice to the Barrymore timbre and huskily gurgles between clenched teeth, "That's all there is — there isn't any more." —HELEN BABCOCK TUE CHICAGOAN The Night Court The Drunks take the Count THE law, justice and human beings, in a long room with a spattered ceiling. Niggers, wops, micks, Jews, vagrants, street walkers, washwomen, ex-saloon keepers (not so ex) — and behind the bar a Presbyterian judge from the country, a colored prosecuting attorney and a very Jewish one, an Irish bailiff, bloated with autho rity, and a clerk with red suspend ers and a twisted face. And wander ing benignly about the room two black-dressed matrons with pearly white hair and faces slightly harder than the more hardened of the prostitutes. Seven niggers, a white woman and a slender mulatto girl with a face like a Madonna were sworn in by the clerk. The detective respon sible for their arrest charged them with sale of liquor. He was col ored, and sarcastic. "I entered the second flat on Thir ty-third street after breaking in the front door and found this here woman," indicating the white female, "on the lap of this man," pointing to a wizened little nigger, who snick ered, "embracing him. Her skirts were above her knees. There was liquor on the table in front of them. I confiscated it. These others were in the room. I brought them along." The attorney for the defense banged the bar with a hairy fist. The detective broke in. "According to law the evidence was illegally obtained." And a long se ries of legal misquotations. The judge mumbled the number of the case, swallowed from a glass con taining water, not the "confiscated" gin, and said in a thin voice, "Case dismissed." Not a change in the faces of those before the bar. A whisper from the clerk. The judge yelled out, "Stop," and the nine acquitted came back. "You're Pearl Williams, a prosti tute, and you've been here before," bawled the prosecuting attorney to the young mulatto. He reached for the glaring light hanging above the desk and turned it full on her face. Her eyes widened. No other change. "And, you," pointing to the white woman, "what were you doing there at two in the morning?" "I keep house for him," nodding at the wizened one. "Are you keeping company with him?" In a voice like a well-mean ing parson. "I have my own room," she an swered, sullenly. The courtroom laughed. A youth with a gash across his cheek and a diamond in his pink shirt woke up from the sleep into which he had fallen while waiting his turn, and blinked. "Silence!" The bailiff's gavel crashed. The wizened one was questioned. "Of course, you know we know you keep a house?" "House. I object, your honor." The defending attorney asserted himself. "What do you mean by house ?" "Well, what do you call it?" the judge asked. "Ah keeps a boarding house," the wizened one answered with great dignity, and was fined seventy-five and costs. The men and women were fined ten a piece, most of which came from the silk stocking of the young mulatto. Outside, the street cars clanged. The money was taken by the clerk and put into the left drawer of his desk. The blind god dess holding her scales above the desk snickered. " ny "T ext " The clerk bawled ^U out the names. The pros- -*¦ ™ ecuting attorney read the numbers to the judge. He wrote them down laboriously, and asked for them again. Twice he checked them through. The numbers seemed extremely interesting. He did this for every case. A raid this time, following drink ing and fighting. Each man told his story and the last, a tiny, one-eyed wop, was called. "Well, Mike, what have you to say for yourself ?" It was the Negro prosecuting attorney this time. Said Mike, "I no says nothing, I no sees nothing, I no hear nothing, I no do nothing, I very drunk Sat urday night." And that was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help him God. Ac quitted. The goddess' scales flick ered. —RUTH FRANK 24 The ARTGALIXRILT THE CHICAGOAN THAT pensive corpse, Chicago painting, is beginning to show signs of life. The movements this time are not merely galvanic (for you can kick even a cadaver into spasms of irritated motion) but vital. There are rumors and ru mors of rumors of a "new group," new alignments," etc., the usual pompous small change of the in telligentsia. But for once, there appears to be something behind the talk. As a matter of fact, your present chronicler is in a position to assert that — Well, there is to be a new group, if you care to call it that. It will not be limited to painting, but it will bear down on that art like a fat man on a sore corn. The personnel is not to be disclosed as yet — in its entire ty, but there will be certain exhibitions, certain one-man shows. Not to mention any names, the public, for one thing, will have a chance to see what a real colorist (not the sort our great-aunt Math- ilde fancies) can do with col or, in the work of Ramon Shiva. * * * Shiva, it is safe to say, knows more about color than any other man in Chicago. He knows it as the old mas ters did and did not know it. He knows why the old mas ters painted the way they did, why they had to paint that way ; and he knows why and how the old boys should not be imitated by contem porary colorists. He knows his subject from two sides, from the side of the color chemist and that of the creator in color. Like the Big Business Man, he begins at the bottom and works his way up. He fulfills Baudelaire's precept in having mastered the mechanics of his medium. Most men would stop with this. With Shiva, it is mere ly an overture to creation. He The Pensive Corpse Shows Signs of Life makes his colors, and then he paints with them. Paints with them, plays with them, poetizes with them, riots with them. After looking at our friend, J. Welling ton's immature atrocities or Mr. Frank's commercial bon-bons gaze on Mr. Shiva's work, and you will perceive the difference be tween colors and color. THIS it is which gives Shiva his importance as an artist. But Chicago has reasons of her own for cherishing him. He is one Shadows of Gold of the few who love to a point be yond madness the metropolitan, skyscraper scene, and he knows how to convey his super-madness to the painted canvas. He is not, by any means, the only Chicago painter who has tackled the cloud- climber, but he is one of the very few who has succeeded in getting it. He will end up, one may be lieve, in the same class with Rene- beck who is, without doubt, our greatest interpreter of the sky scraper. And this, because he has a real feeling for the fascinating aridity, sterility and fertility of the ultra-modern scene. If Shiva could be conceived as getting down on his knees to anything, it would be, I feel sure, to a sky scraper. For him, the skyscraper has slain the still life, the model, it is model enough and the most gorgeous of natures-mortes. That indeed, is just what it is, dead na ture, vibrant with life. Even as he execrates the pseudo-Hellenic des ecration of our lake front, Shiva stands in wonderment and awe be fore that marvelous, overwhelming Michigan Avenue skyline. B' UT coming back to the colorist. Shiva's greatest asset is, at the same time, his greatest peril. Spanish in his antecedents, he did not start in with Zuloaga reds. Rather, he sought for and achieved a haunting delicacy, the tenden cy of which is to become too ethereal, too poetic, to the verge of effeminacy, if not weakness. In the past, he has been, upon occasion, too much the poet in paint. But his progress has been constant and consistent. He has work ed steadily toward the smash Df strong primary colors, and this has brought him, not un naturally, to the skyscraper. He can also do a nude that will bowl you over at a dis tance of a hundred feet — but. through the windows are sky scrapers, to which the figure is merely a fore-background. He plays with the Matisse motive, at times, as in his "The Black Chair", which will undoubtedly be seen at his coming show. His titles are jocularly Matissey. In short, Shiva is an individual in paint; so better jot his show down on your expectant itinerary. The time and place — that will be announced later. —SAMUEL PUTNAM THE CHICAGOAN 25 The Parade Passes By With coins jingling and bank notes bulging from their pockets The adage, "Mighty oaks from acorns grow," has long been ac cepted at its face value. But when a calico-chewing small town lad be comes a financier and chairman of the board of the Continental and Commercial Banks, it is time lo gasp : "Ain't nature grand !" — George M. Reynolds admits it is. Melvin A. Traylor, president of the First National Bank, claims fish ing to be one of his favorite sports. We don't doubt it ! He is head trus tee of the future aquarium in Grant Park, and a trustee of Northwestern University. Consistent? If you concentrate on the work you love, and drink but- t e r m i 1 k you'll be healthy and wealthy at a youthful old age. At least that is John J. Mitchell's formula. And — since he is past seventy, and still holding down the job of president of the Illinois Mer chants Trust Com pany — it's worth con sidering. Edna I. Asmus and Albert J. Carreno Our Scotch banker, David R. For- gan, seems to get almost as much publicity from the amalgamated as sociation of burglars as he does from his activity as president of the Na tional City Bank. Periodically sedate Evanston is upset by an invasion of the Forgan home. What are they after? Scotch? William R. Dawes may not smoke the Dawes pipe, but he speaks the Dawes mind. He declared that a watch dog was needed for the treas uries of the city's tax-spending bodies. Insinuating the need of a remedy? How like his cousin! 26 THE CHICAGOAN Rustic Romance Some afternoon when the of fice is dead and the bit of blue sky visible from your window suggests the open country and a vivid sunset, the invigorating au tumn breeze which raises the papers on your desk is a challenge, and you think longingly of a quiet place in the country, dial Bittersweet 000 (or whatever her number may be), and suggest dinner at the Pink Poodle. For within good driving distance of Chicago here is just the sort of ideal home atmosphere, excellent food, and natural quietude which your city- weary soul craves. By leaving town about four o'clock, just early enough to escape traffic and to en joy a fine truant feeling, the thirty- mile drive may be made leisurely and at the day's most soothing hour. We'll vouch for the result; for it's bound to be satisfactory. We tried it; and we know. The Pink Poodle, belying its ultra-roadhouse name, is the large, old-fashioned home of a gentleman farmer and is on the Des Plaines River. It may be reached by taking the Waukegan Road to the Half Day Road and driving west about five miles. You may telephone and have your dinner ready when you arrive, or you may happen in and stroll about the expansive lawns, breathe deeply of the gaso- lineless air and grow wistful over the sleepy bird-notes from the beau tiful old trees which surround the house, while the ample old colored woman prepares to serve you a southern chicken dinner on the screened porch. . If it is too cool to enjoy the spa cious lawn, the living-room, like that of a lodge, offers comfort and cheer with its blazing log fire, shelves of books and cozy, cushioned niches. The charm of this place never wanes for me ; I am always loathe to leave, and on one occasion even tried to persuade the very pleasant proprie tor to allow me to remain for several days. J7V\ART RENDEZVOU/ Befriended by a Cook On the southeast corner of Erie Street and Michigan Boulevard there hangs a board bearing the legend "Vassar House" and the figure of a girl in gay peasant dress. If you are hungry you will do well to fol- Tea Time in the Congress Oriental Room. low this maid's direction for a few doors east on Erie Street, and drop in at the little downstairs restaurant at number one-fifty-three — right across the street from The Chica- goan. The apricot-colored walls, the provincial French designs in the archways (done by Edgar Miller), and the waitresses in their bright peasant girl costumes will delight you, but wait until you have ordered and tasted one of Josephine's din ners ! I don't know where Josephine was discovered in this day and age, but she is of the seemingly obsolete order of cooks who have a feeling for their art. To supplement Josephine's in dulgence of her public is the unusual management of this establishment, which is in the hands of the Alumni of Vassar College. It is a point of pride with these women that their restaurant shall reflect an atmosphere of informality and the table be as appetizing as that of one of their own homes. The best of everything goes into the kitchen there and when one sees "cream" on the menu he may be certain that it is not diluted milk. Vassar House is not run for profit in the ordi nary sense; the proceeds go to the establishment of a scholarship fund for Vassar College. In a word, Vas sar House is a philanthropic under taking: some worthy girl will be given a college education, and many restaurant-weary persons will be befriended by Josephine. We once optimistically sought va riety in our environment at every meal but it proved to be ruinous to our digestion, so now we drift in daily to pay homage to Josephine. If you belong to the great army of near-north-siders who eat dinner as well as luncheon in the restaurants, then you, too, will be eager to know of a place where you will be tempted to drop in regularly because the food is so exceptional, the menus varied, and familiar faces will greet you if you, too, become a member of Jose phine's favored family. —PAULA THE CHICAGOAN 27 Jars o£ Beauty "Euclid alone has looked. on Beauty bare." —Edna St. Vincent Millay In spring, so our best poets in sist, a young maid's fancy turns to thoughts of love. But in au tumn her thoughts turn to getting rid of a healthy coat of tan or freckles. For the outlines of a bathing suit never did look particularly attractive under the soft, filmy transparency of chiffon. And, since I am no less feminine than other women, I began, about Labor Day, to read carefully all the brightly promising ads of creams that would "in the wink of an eye lash remove all traces of tan, sun burn and freckles." The dilemma was in picking out the best of these many miracle creams, for I wanted to get rid of that terrible Indian color in the quickest, most efficient way. I did! I got rid of the tan, all right, but about six layers of skin went with it. Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I did — I read the directions very carefully, following them with the precision of a mathematician. I scrubbed my face and neck and arms until they fairly prickled. I applied the hottest water I could stand. Then — I rubbed the cream all over, and sat propped up in bed so that I wouldn't rub off any of the precious ointment in restless sleep. But — I didn't sleep — not a wink! Without exaggerating I suffered the tortures of the damned. The fire crept from my forehead down, down, down, down to the last square inch of cream- covered skin. Several times I was on the verge of taking the stuff off, but I made up my mind to be brave,' like Joan of Arc. One had to suffer a bit to be beautiful. Some one said once, " 'Tis suffering that makes woman beautiful." Well — I saw the dawn creep into my room — the first orange lights of sunrise. I heard the milkman and the paper boy. I heard the family getting up. Then after the orderly routine of the day had set in, I pro ceeded with misgivings to follow the remaining directions. What carnage the mirror re vealed! And for this I had emu lated the fortitude of Joan of Arc. From my chest up, I was nothing but a great hunk of raw meat! There wasn't a tiny patch of skin left on the area of operation. It was just a red, crinkled mass of flesh. And the directions had said: "After following these directions carefully, you will awaken in the morning to find your skin as white and smooth as the petals of a lily" ! It isn't necessary to enlarge upon the events that followed, includ ing such minor details as the enlistment of the family physician. Every credulous woman that has sought to improve upon nature, knows all about it. And — the rest of you can guess ! Oh, it pays to advertise, all right. Especially when it comes to the ad vertising of "jars of beauty" with their artfully convincing copy of how Soria Glanson, or any of the many envied beauties of screen and stage (pictured in the ad) owe their loveliness to this or that cream, skin food or soap. Every girl, wanting to be a model of "the skin you love to touch" fairly eats up this seductive fiction. I did. That is — until this last fa tality which permanently cured my gullibility. Always, even in child hood, my great ambition was to be beautiful. Mother used to console me by saying, "Beauty is as beauty does. A beautiful character is re flected in the face." Well — the older I got, the more dubious I was about this kind philosophy. Of course, it may be that my character was not what it should be. At any rate, I wasn't satisfied with my face ! I believed the beauty ads as im plicitly as I had formerly be lieved in fairy tales. I bought this soap and that cream ; this pow der and that lotion, until our medi cine chest was assuming the propor tions of a miniature drug store. Long evening hours were spent in chem ical tests, but with negligible results. In fact, I couldn't for the life of me see any improvement ! I decided to be patient, however. A week, even a month could not undo the work of years. Then, along came the "wonder clay," a sort of gray mud that would work the miracle, all else having failed. After earnest inquiry at the drug store, I purchased a large sup ply of the best mud. Impatient to get the business of making myself beautiful done as quickly as possible, I wallowed in mud night after night. Who knows how long? I lost count! Sitting in the gloomy privacy of my unlighted room, I would fan my mud-covered visage until the stuff would dry and crack and my face would feel as though some invisible force were drawing it into a shapeless mass. But — I would be beautiful! 28 THE CHICAGOAN Try as I might, with face close to the mirror and eyes squinting in desperate search for the miracle, I could discover nothing. Nothing but what had been there before. It was the same old face, with the same old marks that identified it as my own. I was not a bit nearer the loveliness of Soria Glanson. Strange ! J rT^Ms a tragi-comedy — this f emi- I nine search for magazine- cover-girl pulchritude. Tragic while nursing a red, swollen physi ognomy back to normal. Funny, when it's all over — the traces of our folly left only in the memory — when the family tells "a certain party" all about it, enlivening the details with additional flourishes that never did have anything to do with the facts "as was." But, when the "certain party," laughing at the family's recital, looks at us a certain way — well — what difference does it make if we aren't so lovely as Soria Glanson? —EDNA I. ASMUS Bacchus in Rags — And without a Kingdom Oh, the gentle art of drinking Is an art that's lost, I'm thinking. Since we've been reduced to slink ing Into nooks to gulp our stuff. No more do genial, kindred souls Sit openly 'round flowing bowls. Now hootch is served in dismal holes By gents who treat 'em rough. We drink our drinks from flasks and cans In vestibules or parked sedans. While some one of the party scans The horizon for cops. — Paul Ernst LCUICAGQAN Miss Dorothy Rend, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Joseph P.' Rend, tvho will make her debut this season. — Drake Studio. THE DISTINCTIVE GIFT WITU A PERSONAL TOUCH DRAKE. CAMERA PORTRAITS Oie Djwkt Studio DRAr^E UOTEL "SOCIETY'S OFFICIAL PHOTOGRAPHER" What a Challenge Revealed SOME one hundred days ago when THE CHICA GOAN was but the em bryo of a brilliant idea, men of opinion questioned the po tentiality of its appeal with a cynical skepticism. "Chicagoans are not pro vincial; the taste for a smart, sophisticated resume of the more subtle angles of a city's varied interests existed in a few of the more alert indiv iduals." Actuality has established a truth. THE CHICAGOAN has shown a constant growth in circulation. Starting with a net paid circulation of ap proximately 5,4 0 0, THE CHICAGOAN has grown steadily without the aid of publicity until we are now guaranteeing a minimum of 10,000 net-paid on the fifth is sue, that of Oct. It. A response of this extent manifested during the sum mer months has convinced the most conservative skeptics. THE CHICAGOAN has met the challenge. With this background for judgment, the return of the Fall season and the introduc tion of a publicity campaign directed toward quality Chi cago. THE CHICAGOAN anticipates a continuance of this unusual growth which should net a minimum of 17,500 by the first of the year. It is the privilege of the primary advertiser to enjoy preferred position, and receive the benefit of a healthy growth in circulation, at an absurdly low rate at this time. INVESTIGATE THE SPECIAL RATES AVAIL ABLE UNTIL OCT. 15th. Address Iriqiry to JOHN J. KETTLEWELL Advertising Manager TWECWICACOAN 29 BOULEVARD I ER SHUTTING out the sunlight in their frantic efforts to be seen, the post-season sales signs are everywhere, above the white buckskin sport shoes at Martin's, the sweaters and flannel coats at Peck and Peck's, the grass bags in the corner window, the "little" summer dresses, hanging limp and chilly on their racks, the glass and china and furniture far up the Avenue. This is the time to buy in on essentials. I don't know about the things subject to next season's back kick, but it's worth taking a chance when it comes to shoes and such. A stunning night-robe and step- ins to match at Kerman's. White crepe, a deep yolk of black lace, with pockets and scalloped bottom of lace. Black satin mules lined with red, and garters of scarlet with bril liant buckles are posed just next. Silken sheets, lacy pillows, satin cov ers — nothing less should frame this. Such a relief ! Black satin', black moire, black velvet slippers, at Mil ler's — the simple one-strap kind, slim and slick — shown with flesh and nude chiffon hose. The cut-out, jig saw sort, the green patents and the blue kids, look mangy compared to them. There is a tiny flower shop up near the bridge, and over the door way glitters "Original Allegretti." Inside one can buy pink rosebuds for half a dollar a dozen — with some of that delicate white stuff thrown in. I've had mine for four days and they are still lovely. Shayne's are showing a new Knox hat for men. Shaggy and bluish green, called the Dysart. Belongs in the -brown derby class. A number of frail bamboo sticks are holding up ties and caps in haberdashers' win dows. A coat of pale tan kasha, very soft and fine, at Rena Hartman's. It is cuffed and collared in natural lynx, which fur seems to enjoy a very nice holdover from last year. It is smart and mighty kind to , the face above it. Mahogany from San Domingo with inlaid ovals of satinwood, form most exquisite dining pieces at Dan- ersk's. Heppelwhite. The square of the table is beautifully softened at the corners. As you enter, just fac ing the door, a secretary of walnut and curly maple which is a repro duction of an Essex Museum piece. If, while country week-ending, you notice that the black and white and the brown and white cows, down by the south fence, are hud dling together in panic, you'll know that it is because they feel fate and fashion drawing in on them. Whole coats and hats and trimmings for coats and hats dapple every other window. The folks inside say the material is pony, but it looks cow to me, and frightfully ugly. Leschin's are showing a number of large hats of velvet — tan, black, "Ten thousand new members by Christmas! --and you still call it a Country Club? Why, its approximately as exclusive as Ellis Island now." 30 green and the rather new red. The big hats have been grand— girlish and all — but suits and fur-collared coats will oust them soon to make way for the smaller hats. These are high crowned, but soft and of vel vet or felt. The velvet ones fit the brow tightly just above the eyes with the soft part sort of swooping back. They are smart, but a bit try ing to those of us who would not screen well. That most becoming of headgear, the soft felts, with the lit tle turned-down ripple brims, are just as good as ever, praise be ! Awfully good Turkish paste at Graylings — all flavors and colors, but eat 'em right away or you're done. oncer white handkerchiefs for men, with exquisitely embroidered monograms in all colors, at Litwin- sky's. The monograms are a long and narrow bit of embroidery this year. Maybe that's to show a bit more as they droop carelessly (?) from the pocket. They also show the handkerchief with stripes and initials that match. Silk ones are stunning in the rich, mixed wines, blues and tans. Everybody on the Boulevard is talking about the style show in the French Rooms on the fourth floor of Mandels. Miss Kelly, the im porter of Parisian gowns, has just returned from a three month trip to Paris. Elaborate preparations are being made, and every woman who is interested in the latest style changes is anxiously await ing the date. "I bought every smart gown in Paris" Miss Kelly said humbly, "and just wait until you see my style show". We'll be there. William H. Jackson is showing stunning fireplace things in iron, beautifully wrought. Some are gilded in designs for those who find brass too bright and the black iron too sombre. There's a grand log basket of iron, gilded in places, which has a high handle just like those in wood. Orrea. Lincoln Park Dim forms Walk slowly Through the sticky dusk, And all is grave and still. The dinky boat-house light Winks on, And quick bugs fly about it Restlessly, And weary men walk Slowly Through the powdered dusk. HOW would you like the convenience and luxury of a most soothing and effective facial given right in your own home ? Miss Engstrand is offer ing this service to women ex clusively. The very finest of preparations are used together with the most scientific skill. For appointment call • Graceland 2216 Bags Novelties Smoking Accessories Costume Jewelry PARIS- CHEZ -VOUS IMPORTER— COMMISSIONER HELEN HAFFENBERG in EAST CHICAGO AVENUE THE CHICAGOAN 31 So Long, Lady OH run along and have your fun, dear, while Your face holds powder and your legs have style. And smile and make your eyes half-shut and swoon When some swift beauty sings her healthy cry. Eat artichokes and orange juice and soon All men will laud your helplessness and vie To guard your tangled, pale hypo- cricy And you'll be pleased and grin angelically. But when all sighing and all frailty fails, And wrinkles wink at lonesome lads who turn Away; when swooning brings but whining wails Of pity — then be brave, beloved, and burn The tallow from your wickless soul Adieu, And when I'm old, perhaps I'll send for you. It's The Talk Of the Town ! You Cannot Resist THE CHICAGOAN The Galvanic Independence That is Chicago — The Delightful Flippancy That is THE CHICAGOAN Smart People love it Because it is written Exclusively for them And no one Else. Chicago has already paused - noticed - and cordially ap proved of the Boreas Book store, even in its adolescent awkwardness. NOW we in vite you to inspect a stock quite • worthy of your taste Open with surprising regu larity * BOREAS BOOK STO R E 109 EAST CHICAGO AVE. Smart Tailored Clothes for The Chicctgoan BUSINESS DINNER SPORT EVENING Correctness in every detail has long characterized the tailoring artistry of Dinato TAILORS 337 West Madison Street IEW CREA¥fiO)N§(0)FlHDE 1/oi^iS i Jiedeu Studio* &2>5W.WAS>IH]0K((Qiir<Q>N $TJ. HAND DECORATED WASTE BASKETS BOOK.ENDS ETC. SOLD AT CHICAGO^ EXCLUSIVE 01 FT SHOPS INCLU DINO MARSHALL FIELD &CO. - CARSON P1RIE SCOTf and CO. THE ORIENT SHOPS LTD.- THE EDGEWATER &.H.GIFT SHOP. 32 TUE CHICAGOAN Catalogues Booklets Publications Commercial Stationery M. P. Levine Printing Company Incorporated 161 W. Harrison St. Telephone Harrison 8765 Chicago Price Service Quality Day and Ni&ht The Declining Reporter Question : Do you really think the Tribune tower is higher than the Wrigley tower, or does it merely look higher? Sir Algernon Waddington Wick- ham, 35th and Halsted, Chicago: Mister, I'll tell you what I think, but don't put it in the paper. I think the Tribune is higher but my wife thinks it's the Wrigley. We've dis cussed the question a number of times and the last time I went to the Bridewell and she to the County Hospital. I still think the Tribune is higher. She's a very stubborn woman; absolutely won't listen to reason. Ladislaw D. Bjolgk, 999 Lake Shore Drive : Dlsokob bspow noerris tskuv nobdj. Where, Mister, I can get it da sout shore tren ? Morris G. Fienstein, Broadway, New York City : What'da mean Towers. In this hick burg? Take a look at Fith Ave, guy. Take a look at Fith Ave ! Ya tryin' ta kid somebody? Mrs. Edith McConnell Rockman, 711 South Halsted : Why I think the Tribune is. No, I don't know, it may be only the way it looks from here. Still you can't tell, now, can you? Wait a minute till I run across the bridge and look from there. Tomasco A. Gasparettia, Blackstone Hotel : I can't see that far. But do step down under the bridge with me a minute. I got here a fine sample of a genuine imported Canadian article that's absolutely 35 years old or I'm a liar — Francis X. Hennessey, City Hall Station : Hello, Hogan? Sind out the go- cart. I got another wan o' thim nuts here wants to know about the Trib une tower. — F. C. Coughlin. STATEMENT OF . THE OWNER SHIP, MANAGEMENT, CIRCULA TION, ETC., REQUIRED BY THE ACT OF CONGRESS OF AUGUST 24, 1912, OF THE CHICAGOAN, pub lished semi-monthly at Wilmette, 111., State of Illinois, County of Cook, ss. Before me, a Notary Public in and for the State and County aforesaid, person ally appeared Frederick M. Rosen, who, having been duly sworn according to law, deposes and says that he is the Pub lisher of THE CHICAGOAN and that the following is, to the best of his know ledge and belief a true statement of the ownership, management, etc., of the aforesaid publication for the date shown in the above caption, required by the Act of August 24, 1912, embodied in sec tion 411, Postal Laws and Regulations, to wit: 1. That the names and addresses of the publisher, editor, managing edi tor, and business managers are: Frede rick M. Rosen, President, 1317 Addison St.; I. H. Marth, Vice-President, 154 E. Erie St.; Kurt S. Fallbacher, Secretary. 154 E. Erie St.; L. R. Rosen, Treasurer, 154 East Erie Street; John K. Kettle- well, Advertising Manager, 154 East Erie Street; J. E. McGrath, Editor, 154 E. Erie Street; Dean Patty, Art Direc tor, 154 E. Erie St. 2. That the owner is: (if the publication is owned by an indi vidual his name and address, or if owned by more than one individual the name and address of each, should be given be low; if the publication is owned by a corporation, the name of the corporation and the names and addresses of the stockholders owning or holding one per cent or more of the total amount of stock should be given.) The Chicagoan, Fred M. Rosen, L. R. Rosen. 3. That the known bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders owning or holding 1 per cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities are : (if there are none, so state.) None. 4. That the two paragraphs next above, giv ing the names of the owners, stockhold ers, and security holders, if any, contain not only the list of stockholders and se curity holders as they appear upon the books of the company, but also, in cases where the stockholder or security holder appears upon the books of the company as trustee or in any other fiduciary rela tion, the name of the person or corpora tion for whom such trustee is acting, is given; also that the said two paragraphs contain statements embracing affiant's full knowledge and belief as to the cir cumstances and conditions under which stockholders and security holders who do not appear upon the books of the com pany as trustees, hold stock and securi ties in a capacity other than that of a bona fide owner; and this affiant has no reason to believe that any other person, association, or corporation has any inter est direct or indirect in the said stock, bonds, or other securities than as so stated by him. FREDERICK M. ROSEN, Publisher. Sworn to and sub scribed before me this 17th day of Sep tember, 1926. (Seal.) MYRTLE PE- TERMAN, Notary Public, Cook County. (My commisssion expires Nov. 17, 1929.) gg^gresygsgggsgygygg'q^^ Wi A- .T $2-995 — the first enclosed Pierce- Arrow'ever priced under $3000 — this two-door, five-passenger, custom-built coach is soundest economy. Built in its entirety in the Pierce- Arrow factory, the body is the masterly custom work of men whose whole life times have been devoted to producing the finest there is. Available in your choice of six charm- Body by Pierce- Arrow ing color combinations, exquisitely ap pointed, richly carpeted, and upholstered - withsoftfinishwool,itismountedonthe economical, wear-resisting Series 80 chas sis which means 14 to 17 miles per gallon of gasoline, 15,000 to 18,000 miles from 4M&S, *»d -yea*s *©f ^ejwadabk -service. A demonstration should be of interest to every person with a love for the really fine thing in a motor car. A moderate payment now, balance to be distributed evenly over a period of months, will secure immediate delivery. "** "* \ PIERCE- ARROW 2420-22 S. MICHIGAN AVENUE SALES "CORPORATION Telephone Calumet 5960 CHICAGO t Series go C^ive-T'assenger ¦» •» Two-'Door (Custom-built COACH $2995 Other coach models with four doors, $3250 to $3450 All prices at Buffalo — Plus tax,