ber 1.1926 Price 15 cents FiATO 'oupiAJ^ wjot cy\dudj&z bi&j£ A I W A V S M £ B U U E O Q C M I D COQDAY, PAH.I.T IMPORTED BY LIONEL , 3QO FIFTH AVE, NEW YORK CORDAY LIPPTICK9— rUPERUATiVE/ The Chicagoan, published serai-monthly by The Chicagoan Pub. Co.. Inc.. 417 Main St., Wilmette, 111. Executive and editorial offices, 154 East Erie St, Chicago 111 John E. McGraih, Editor; Arthur Ruddy, Art Director. Subscription $3.00, single copies 15c. Vol. 2, No. 4, November 1, 1926. Entered as second class matter August 11 1926, at the post office at Wilmette, 111., under act of March 3, 1879. Copyrighted 1926, by The Chicagoan Publishing Co., Inc. fewdk fcweii 320 MICHIGAN AVENUE • NORTH Just South of the Bridge GOWNS • WRAPS . MILLINERY crw^^ WJe Season's Smarted Coats Ultra smart coats — with slim beauty in their graceful lines — artistically made to your individual measure and evi dencing the pinnacle of workmanship. *Rodier 's Xjda Cloth French broadcloth • %)dier's Crepdla ^America's Fines! Coatings 2 T14ECI4ICAGOAN a'\MH^ O 0 * o V THE CUICAGOANy ORT c£NT. OOJ9 0IES.ANDSAT.Mft )} sAr. EV£.$3~ / tfEP.MAr.$2PO | FUNNIESTSHOWINTOWN L ALL CHICAGO 1$ HOWLING ^ WITH LAUGHTER AT sSSgr " H[fl*£ "S£A/SAT/OAJAl HIT" AMY LESL/e "GOOD SHOW -GOOD FUN" F/9E-J2. DOAfAGHr ILLINOIS NOW THEATRE 2^S Evening 8:15 Matinees, Wed. and Sat. 2:15 Aarons and Freedley Present 'jip-TOES' The Musical Comedy Triumph of Two Continents with GEORGE GERSHWIN Music Queenie Smith, Andrew Tombes, Harry Watson, Jr., Richard Keene and America's Greatest Dancing Chorus THE THEATRE DRAMA KONGO — With Walter Huston. Another tale of the tropics done in very much the usual manner. THE PRINCESS. THE GHOST TRAIN— With Eric Blore, and which, like The Bat, is intended to make the audience shiver. THE ADELPHI ONE MAN'S WOMAN — An anthology includ ing cheap sex lines from every play ever pro duced. THE CENTRAL. COMEDY THE POOR NUT — Midwestern colleges as Ox ford sees them. Elliott Nugent, Betty Garde, Ralph Hackett and Eric Kalkhurst. THE CORT. COAL OIL JENNY— Frank Craven's play in which a powder mill girl goes to New York to splurge on a few thousand dollars. THE BLACKSTONE. ALIAS THE DEACON— The ghost of Light- nin' Bill Jones and Mr. Hawley of The Old Soak. THE PLAYHOUSE. THE JAZZ SINGER— George Jessel singing jazz and Jewish hymns, with equal hokum. THE HARRIS. PLAYHOUSE (Evenings at 8:30) Matinees Wednesday and Saturday Introduces to Chicago a safe. established, sure hit which ran at the Hudson Theatre, New York, all last season to tremendous crowds. Samuel Wallach Presents the Ace of Comedies Alias The Deacon BERTON CHURCHILL AND ORIGINAL NEW YORK CAST THE SHELF— With Frances Starr and Arthur Byron. To be review in next issue. THE LaSALLE. BUBBLING OVER— With Cleo Mayfield and Cecil Lean. THE SELWYN. SHE COULDN'T SAY NO— With Florence Moore. THE OLYMPIC. WHY NOT— The Goodman. THE RUNAWAY ROAD— With Mrs. Samuel Insull. THE STUDEBAKER. MUSICAL COMEDIES TIP TOES— With Queenie Smith. George Gershwin music and a good show. THE ILLINOIS. THE VAGABOND KING— If I Were King, well set to music. Dennis King as Francois Villon. THE GREAT NORTHERN. PRINCESS FLAVIA— Based on the novel of The Prisoner of Zenda, with some good music. FOUR COHANS. SWEETHEART TIME— Youth, music and romance — not a great deal more. THE GARRICK. REVUES LEMAIRE'S AFFAIRS— Still the dirtiest and best show in town. With Sophie Tucker, Ted Lewis, and Lester Allen. THE WOODS. THE COCOANUTS— Fair music by Irving Ber lin and the Marx Brothers in their usual stunts. THE ERLANGER. THE GREENWICH VILLAGE FOLLIES— Last season's issue in New York. APOLLO. VODVIL PALACE— First class bills. STATE-LAKE— Next best bet. First run movies also. MAJESTIC — Continuous from noon to 11 p. m. MISCELLANEOUS SOUSA'S BAND— Sunday, November 7.— THE AUDITORIUM. JOHN McCORMICK— Sunday, November 7, 3 P. M. THE AUDITORIUM. BOLM BALLETT— Ruth Page. In a Seres of performances. EIGHTH STREET THEATRE THE CHICAGOAN 3 _? o • %rt%ntftmffrriTl>mftrrifti7»ffirTffmaiTOWTtnrT^^ CALENDAR. Of EVtNT/ AFTER THEATRE CHEZ PIERRE— Pierre Nuyttens' artistic res taurant. Dancing, dining and after theatre sup per. "Snapshots of 1926" an entertaining re vue. Ontario Street and Fairbanks Court. BAL TABARIN— with Jack Chapman and his band. HOTEL SHERMAN. 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. THE DRAKE GRILL— Redecorated. Bobby Meeker and his Drake Hotel orchestra. DRAKE HOTEL. THE BALOON ROOM— New surroundings. Johnny Hamp and his orchestra. CONGRESS HOTEL. THE MARINE DINING ROOM— Good Music, good food, good floor. EDGEWATER BEACH HOTEL. SAMOVAR — Russian surroundings, entertain ment and good music. 624 S. Michigan Ave. VICTORIAN ROOM— Supper, dancing, Jules Herbuveaux and his orchestra. PALMER HOUSE. THE ALAMO — Good entertainment, lighted glass floor and Al Handler and his orchestra. Dinner. 831 Wilson. L'AIGLON — Dining, dancing and good music. 824 N. Michigan. YE OLDE HAY LOFTE— Dancing, Dining.— EVANSTON. GALLERIES ROULLIER GALLERIES— the most complete collection of the etchings of Morris Achener ever shown in America, through the month of October. ACKERMANN'S — many exhibits, with no em phasis on any one of them. ART INSTITUTE— Now presenting the Amer ican Show. DUNBAR EXHIBIT— Here you may see the artists of the modern school, including Edgar R. Payne, Francis Murphy, Charles Haffin, and Alexander H. Wyant. O'BRIEN — Nothing special. ANDERSON ART CO.— A very unusual ex hibition of seventeenth and eighteenth century English portraits to be hung through the first two weeks of October. Paintings by Gains borough and Sir Thomas Lawrence. n A. H. WOODS' am AdelphI // North Clark St. I Rand.4466 A. H. WOODS IN ASSOCIATION WITH ARCH SELWYN Presents "The Ghost Train" BUILT FOR RECORD RUNS Thrills, Laughter, Pulsing Melodrama NOTE— Watch Its Approach! The most amazing stage effect ever achieved. Popular Price Matinees Wednesday and Saturday ERLANGER (Clark near Randolph) NOW PLAYING Matinees Wednesday and Saturday SEATS NOW SELLING Sam H. Harris Presents the Marx Brothers -IN- The Cocoanuts Music and Lyrics by Irving Berlin Book by Geo. S. Kaufman WORLD'S GREATEST LAUGH RIOT — NOW — HARRI £ Theatre *^ America's Youngest Emotional Star GEORGE JESSEL — IN — The Perfect Comedy - Drama The Jazz Singer Direct from Year's Run in New York -by- SAMSON RAPHAELSON Staged by Albert Lewis Matinees Wednesday and Saturday "One Man's Woman" Frankest Sex Drama Ever Staged! " — is all the advertisements indicate — is hot — almost burns a hole in the asbestos curtain" — Says Ashton Stevens, in Herald-Examiner Direct from 7 Months at 48th St. Theatre New York at the MINTURN CENTRAL The Theatre Cozy Van Buren at Michigan Eves, at 8:30— Mats. Wed. and Sat. Special Matiness Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years 4 TUECWICAGOAN ^yonwh® s££& smjaAtthlr^ You are invited to a showing of imported models and original McAvoy designs - - Day Dresses, Dinner and Evening Gowns, Suits, Hats, Wraps, Furs and Novelties - Whether made to order or ready to be worn, McAvoy models give the joyous satisfaction only smart fhings can give - - and you will find moderate prices »- . - . P, arts McAVOY^-90 615 N Michigan Avenue CHIC AG O TU-E TALK OF TWE TOWN NOT, perhaps, since Beau Brummel has there been so definite an example of the rise and fall of the proletarian; but in this case the apex was reached and the denouement completed in, at the most, one hour; whereas Mr. Brummel's career, we understand, lasted over a period of years. This incident happened at the Lake Shore Drive Hotel. A rather ash-gray gentleman with an air of having hoped for better days sat in the dining room having dinner. He was in no hurry ; he took his meal so slowly that he irritated the waiters even at the Lake Shore Drive Hotel, where, if we can judge by the attitude of that establish ment, the servants are supposed to have no human reactions. Finally, when the meal was over, he paid his check with precision and a rather grand gesture, and walked slowly from the room to the out side door, where he stopped to look at the weather. It was damp and rather cold. Down Michigan Boulevard to the left motors were scurrying, their tires humming on the wet, sticky pavement, like strong moths on flypaper. THE old man took one last look at the warm dining room from which he had just departed, pulled up his coat collar, turned a deaf ear to the doorman's insistent inquiries about a cab, walked across the drive and lay down on the grass of the park, where, to all appearances, he intended to spend the night. Beau Brummel could have done no better. Saturnalia STATE Street had its moment; it certainly did. Not since the celebrated and much over rated State Street Blues has our attention been called so directly to this particular thoroughfare. But, as our best sages insist, the worm will, and does, turn, and State Street which, for the past two years, has been lying in a catalep tic posture two blocks west of Michigan Boulevard arose in re volt and broke out in a rash of bunting, electricity, and Christmas tree decorations — with Katzen jam mer castles at each end of the loop. The one-hundred percent hinter land arrived entourage ; Peoria leading Kenosha, Michigan City and Benton Harbor by two hun dred and ten. There were screams and laugh ter and newspapers torn in frenzy. Certainly State Street had its hour. Main Street lit up like High Mass. MARSHALL Field's arose to the occasion and, in their usual manner, did their share to add hideousness to the vulgar by displaying chronically atrocious windows of artichokes tied on blue berry bushes and watermelons hanging gracefully from duckweed — all softly splashed against a background of red and gold ele phants. And speaking of red and gold elephants, Balaban and Katz demonstrated their subtle sense of the drama by having a man and woman hanging from a rope sus pended from the top of the Roose velt Theatre. Certainly it was a big night. And now that we have our new barer and brighter State Street, we must, in spite of our civic pride, admit that to pour a flood of lights on that certain street, particular ly the southern end of it, is to re veal as many embarrassing objects TI4ECI4ICAGOAN as to have the canals of Venice suddenly go dry and wouldn't that be fine ? Mystery LAST week in the loop we saw a crowd of people surging around something which seemed to possess an overwhelmingly inordinate in terest. Now we have been fooled by crowds before when, judging from the pushing and gaping, we expected to see a dead -body and found, instead, only an Italian scis sors grinder or an Armenian ped dler demonstrating the strength of the hose he was selling. So, this time, we decided to be completely disinterested and were going to walk casually by when we told our selves that, after all, it was our business to find out what was going on. Maybe it was a politician mak ing a subway speech or promising to wipe out the crime wave — both of which, we knew, would be cer tainly worth listening to. ANYWAY we decided to take a look and wormed our way into the mass, did our share of el bow shoving, and what do you think we found ? A pile of red and yellow oak leaves. And everyone was trying to decide how they got in the loop. We suggested that they probably were carried there in the cuff trous ers of the out of town visitors who came to see the State Street demon stration. Either that or the Oak Park "L". Take your choice. Maxwell Street THERE is, perhaps, no one in the city who has not, at some time or other, taken a walk down Maxwell Street — or who has not at least heard of the place ; for it is, certainly, the great, unrecognized spirit of commerce, the apex of mis representation, and the high place of direct, illustrated sales talk. On Sunday mornings it is partic ularly vibratory; no one in the district stays home then. And for anyone who, through some curious misunderstanding, has never been there, we might add that one can, without effort, buy there anything from itching powder to Persian cats, the Holy Grail, cow catchers, or baseball mitts. Nothing has a close season on Maxwell Street; everything conceivable is there; and don't think there aren't a few active clerks. But, so far as the visitor is concerned, the thing to do is to buy nothing; the great fun for those who like to try the quasi- impossible is to walk down its six blocks of outside shops and not buy something. If you don't care for a piano with spindle legs, how about a monkey wrench or a half dozen lemons? THE last time we visited the place was on one of those un expected, sultry days which break the monotony of early autumn. Anyway, on this particular occas ion there seemed to be, on the part of the vigorous vendors, an uncon trollable urge to sell wool blankets, lumberjack blouses, and sheep skins. We turned away from fifty offers of each — all alternated, of course, with suggestions (which is a weak word) to take home a few pounds of herring, a pair of bloom ers for the ladies, or a bottle of snake oil for grandfather. OF all the hand-waving barkers present it was difficult to se lect the most insistent one, but, at any rate, the man who sold the snake oil was certainly the most successful in attracting a crowd. He told us he was from the big west; he said it three or four times ; but there was about him too much of the caponic dignity of a floor walker in a hat shop to be really convincing. Austin Boule vard, probably, was the farthest west he had ever been. But his partner, whom he referred to as "wild", gave a talk on the miracles of snake oil; he told amazing, if a bit unintelligible, tales of cripples who had thrown away their crutches and turned contortionists or professional skaters, disgruntled married men who had become happy and raised a family — all be cause of snake oil. It was all very TUE CHICAGOAN 7 marvelous, but, unfortunately, ap proximately as convincing as the state militia. His speech, which was a combination of Mexican mono syllabic grunts and unconjuga- tional Kansas City verbs, went on in substance : "It ain't makin' no difrence if you got college or not — snake oil can cure you." A striking talking point, if nothing else. We heartily recommend a trip down Maxwell Street; but, we must add, don't stop walking. If you do, you'll need a dray, a pass port, and a bootlegger's protection card to get back home. AND speaking of snake oil and Wigwams, we certainly thought we were going to have to call our Haymarket telephone num ber and tell him to lay off the gly cerine when we walked down Michigan Boulevard the other day and found a circus tent in the Drake's front yard. The brown can vas was splurged with red and pur ple balloons, and the whole display was surrounded by a series of beach sun shades which, particu larly in this autumn weather, struck the one note of consistency dis played in having anything as styl istic as a "Silver Anniversary Salon" conducted in so decidedly a Buffalo Bill-Rain in the Face manner. E once heard a fat cabaret entertainer, with fingers like a grocer's pencil, refer to Wil son Avenue as Fashion Row. That particular district of town has, probably, been called everything else; but Fashion Row, we feel, is really an entirely new slant. If we can rely upon our reactions the last time we walked down Wil son Avenue, Music Row would, we feel, be a bit more appropri ate. In one block, particularly on a Saturday night, the great Ameri can pay night, a person is very apt to hear six Salvation Army Bands, nineteen radios, and twenty-two victrolas — all playing Valencia. All but the Salvation Army Bands, that is; they'll probably be playing something which, in their opinion, has a more positive appeal to the Deity. AND keeping step to this sym phony of equivocal, though well-intended, notes is the chiffon hose parade ; paydays come and paydays go, but Saturday nights go on forever. Anything might happen there ; we even heard the o'ther day that a man was seen walking down Wilson Avenue pushing a baby carriage, which is doubtless the most inconsistent thing that any one could say about what the cab aret singer gurglingly referred to as Fashion Row. NOW that all the farmers in northern Wisconsin have learned definitely that the great Robert M. LaFollette is dead and that it was not he but his son whom they elected United States Sena tor, the Chicago newspapers will experience their usual tyronic de light in distorting the reaction of what they like to refer to as the vicious beer and cheese consuming sociai;st of Wisconsin. As a matter of fact, Wisconsin farmers (it was they who elected LaFollette — the socialists live in Milwaukee) are too recently trans planted from Europe to dissociate offices of state from family mono poly ; consequently, so long as they elected the nearest kin of the great Mr. LaFollette, their consciences are clear, and everyone is happy. But, provided the second cousin of the ruler of Liberia doesn't de cide to "do" America, thereby com manding all front page space with reports as to the rising hour, break fast menu and matrimonial inten tions of the visitor, the Tribune, Herald - Examiner and Evening American will, in the next month or so, you may rest assured, devote considerable space and bold face type distorting the unrest of Wis consin in very much the manner that the English like to write up the Boers. Humility YESTERDAY a young man came into our office and asked for work. His first question was, "Do you care what school I went to?" And when we assured him that, we didn't, and we asked him why, he told us this story. He entered a certain advertising office in town and applied for work writing copy. He was directed to the desk of a fat youth on whom the ivy was still clinging; he was the kind of man who goes back to every homecoming wearing ban ners "1925 and still hitting on all six". "Where did you go to school?" the advertising man asked him. The youth admitted, "University of Chicago." "Can't use you". "Why?" the youth asked, "be cause I went to the University of Chicago?" "Well I'll tell you" the perman ent undergraduate advertising man said, "I'm from the east. There are a lot of things I have to do here — straighten matters out and rebuild the system. And this busi ness is altogether too insecure to take any chances on mid-western university men." So the youth picked up his mid- western hat, thanked the genius for his time, and left the office. 8 TI4ECI4ICAGOAN Another Rounder THIS story, which came to us indirectly, is told about a cer tain manufacturer of copper boilers or meat slicers or some such thing. You know what we mean; he was the kind of person whose life is one nightmare of catching trains and taxicabs. On this particular occasion he was on his way to Indianapolis. The man in the seat next his, he decided, might be, after all, sufficiently educated to carry on a congenial discussion ; so all the way to Indianapolis they talked of books and magazines, their faults and merits. This manufacturer was the kind of person who had read one book (something by Zane Grey, the title of which had — tem porarily, of course — slipped his mind) and who knew the title of one more, wmich limitation, how ever, as usually goes with such people, did not prevent him from speaking openly and sweepingly of literature and his impressions of it. Of course you have some idea of what he had to say ; it's al ways the same. The other man sat by and offered little — saying only enough to keep the manufac turer talking. Just before the train arrived in Indianapolis the manufacturer, to show his appreciation (understand he wasn't in the habit of speaking so personally with strangers), turned to the silent man and said, "My name is Schwartz. I'm the president of my concern and believe me we make the best article on the market. I'm glad to know you and I've enjoyed this talk." "Thank you", said the wordless man, "and I want you to know that I enjoyed this talk too. I'm Sherwood Anderson". And the big1 business man jumped in a cab and was whirled away to another convention, wondering all the time who Sherwood Anderson was. AFTER viewing with combined embarrassment and patience the recent French pastry parade for the opening of Wacker Drive, we have, definitely, decided to grant our prize for the ridiculous to Baby Digger. Not that Baby Digger had any more ribbons and tissue paper than the rest of the trucks and construction machines, nor, for that matter, was it any gaudier than the rest, but the name rather appealed to us. Besides, it fitted the prize so smugly we thought it inconsistent to award it to another firm. The prize is a bound volume of the editorials of Arthur Brisbane and Glenn Frank, illustrated by Kay Neilson, and autographed by The Inquiring Re porter, The Phantom Lover and other editorial celebrities of The Chicago Tribune. The parade, of course, was very gay — a few hundred colored con crete mixers bouncing up and down the Boulevard with orchids behind their ears ; but the demon stration, despite the cold and the rain, bore all earmarks of success, and Wacker Drive was opened with shouts and flag wavings. State Street could do no better. ITH Queen Marie — whoever she is — coming to town, with the opening of Wacker Drive, the State Street spree, and the six-day bicycle race, the picnic element of Chicago should stay entertained for the next six months. We are now prepared to see Queen Marie Candy Bars, Wacker Drive Hair Cuts and State Street Cough Syrup placarded on every street car and bill -board in the country. UNDERSTAND that we take no exception to the fact that the reigning sovereign of Rouman- ia decided to make a trip to this country, but our faith in royalty — if we ever had any — has certainly been shaken by the complete as sumption of royal prerogatives. Surely, it has all been about as subtle as a band of colored Masons marching down Thirty-fifth Street on the Fourth of July. But, no doubt, it is all right. After all, who are we to judge the divine right of the regal? Perhaps things are rather dull in Roumania at this TUECI4ICAG0AN 9 time of the year — even for a Queen. If we're not mistaken, the revolu tions come in the spring with the dandelions and the colds. And so, in all fairness, we are willing to give her credit for one thing: she has snatched the headlines from Peaches Browning, Joyce Hawley, The Slush Committee, and the beer-runners' war, which is some thing. Where is Roumania, anyway? No, Not That THERE is a certain college tea room on the near north side where each waitress wears either a red or a blue ribbon streaming from her lace cap. Of course it is all very pretty and it gives a charm ing effect against the yellow walls, but what about the people who have seen The Dove or Sophie Tucker's burlesque on it? Some of them might have a sense of humor, you know, and no one could pos sibly go in that tea room without noticing the women with their red and blue ribbons. And such nice waitresses too; but there's just as many red ribbons as there are blue — just as many. Liquor List THE bootleggers tell us that the liquor market is about to ex perience an increase in prices due to the fact that the smuggling cost of getting the liquid across the Detroit River has jumped from four dollars to eight dollars a case. Rather interesting, isn't it? But, with our usual caution, we walk by smiling and refuse to make any statements about anything as plas tic as prohibition enforcement offi cers. Chicago Tropics YESTERDAY, when we were leaving the printers, we saw an old woman with leather patches on her dress, and eyes like crushed velvet, balance a box of kindling wood on her head while she crossed Harrison Street. It was near five o'clock and the street was crowded with trucks and express wagons; every truck and express wagon in the city goes down Harrison Street at least once a day — usually about five o'clock. Of course, we've seen pictures of women carrying baskets on their heads ; that wasn't new to us — the photographs Aunt Minnie sends from Mexico or the post cards your ex-roommate mails from Alabama; but, somehow, we usually dissociated that peculiar stunt from Chicago. Anyway, this old woman with the leather patches on her dress walked into the midst of the traffic, jumped in front of two street cars, held off a few automobiles and trucks with her hands, and arrived safely on the other side. And the basket didn't swerve a damn inch. She never could have made it if she hadn't had that load of kindling wood on her head — of that we are positive ; for we waited ten minutes before we saw an opportunity which, with any luck at all, would get us safely across the street. —THE EDITORS 10 TWtCWICAGOAN MAGDA GLATTER The Progress of Beauty. Note the mark of determination throughout the cycle THE CHICAGOAN n PER/ONAL PORTRAIT/ THE true founder of the newspaper "column" as it exists today was, we have seen, the late Bert Leston Taylor. When B. L. T. died, the Chicago Evening Post, with a startling dis play of alertness, leaped into the breach and snapped up the most available man in sight, the only one, as has been previously hinted, worthy of wearing B.L.T.'s mantle. That man happened to be Richard Atwater, who for some years had been engaged in teaching the young idea at the University of Chicago how to sprout Greek roots. Under the classic pen-name of "Riquarius" he had become the Line-o'-Type's star contrib. What happened then was very, very sad, so far as the Tribune was con cerned. As for Riquarius, he proceeded to found the "Pillar to Post." The Tribune's attitude in case of the "Line" was typical. The paper has turned out a number of good men in its time : Percy Hammond, Ring Lardner and others. The trouble has been, how ever, the Tribune always has regarded itself as hav ing made these men ; it has been sublimely unaware that it was such men as these who made the Tri bune. The W. G. N. always has gone on the fatuous assumption that the fact the Tribune placed a man in such or such a place was enough, that the public was there by forced to accept him. The re sult was a silly system of "inter changeable robots," to lift Ri quarius' scintillant mot. Our Column Jesters or we'll take some more of the raspberries, please (R. H. L.) and Frederick Don- aghey, who, if one's memory is good, called himself, during his brief tenure, "Tantalus." How the column passed from Little to Don- aghey and back to Little again is a story not without its humor, but of no great interest to the larger public. The point is, R. H. L. was finally left in charge, while Don- aghey, who as a column-conduc tor had proved a shade too impos sible even for the Tribune, was set to reminiscing about the dear old draymer, in the hope that his re marks might be mistaken for crit icism. FOR some time, the conductor- We thus find Riquarius flaying ship of the "Line" vacillated the Pillar and R. H. L. tugging at between Richard Henry Little the Line. In the meanwhile — or perhaps long before, it makes little difference -the Chicago Daily News had sported a "colyum" of its own called "Hit or Miss" or something of the sort, with one Keith Preston, like Riq. a college professor, in charge. (This idea, by the way, of a college professor as a professional funny man is about the funniest of all our funny American illusions). You have the layout, then. Two college professors, or ex-profs., and R. H. L. The latter — but thereby, etc. PERSONALLY, I recall R.H.L. from my cub days on the old Chicago Herald. I recall him as a human skyscraper which had at tempted to imitate the once famous tower of Pisa. I recall his cane, his goggled glare — above all, his high and mighty, unseeing, star-re porter manner (he had it down to perfection). I am quite sure that Mr. Little was constitutionally in capable of seeing any one below a city editor or of speaking to any one below a managing editor. And yet, the curious thing was — and this was the case with a number of the old boys — I, as a mere cub, strain my eyes as I would, could never discover anything Mr. Little had written or, in a reportor- ial way, had done which might not have been very successfully imi tated by the head copy boy. There are some, it seems, who are born great. Refute it as we may, that fact remains. Mr. Little, it developed, had been a "war correspondent." Now, a "war correspondent" is a myster ious individual. Thoughts of Kip ling, Richard Harding Davis et al at' once flit across our minds. Richard Henry, indeed, was of the 12 TI4ECUICAG0AN Richard Harding Davis school — a belated specimen, that was all. There are rumors to this day of his $5,000 expense account for launch-hire during the Russian- Japanese war, which was paid by Vic. Lawson, after much agony, framed and hung up in the Daily News local room as Exhibit A and an Awful Warning. This alone was eriough to make a man a war cor respondent. Not only this. Dick, in some oc cult manner, had come to be some thing of a heller on the outskirts of society, a sort of Little Brother to the Casino club and the Junior League. He was accepted; he be^- longed to "little Chicago." SO much for background. As to the man himself, not enjoying his personal acquaintance, one is forced to judge by his output. Judged by that output, he is the most sentimental male your pre sent chronicler happens to know. He not only reeks with sentimen tality ; he oozes it. Especially when the American Legion, the Marines or the Wounded Doughboys are mentioned. Speak of "the poppied fields of Flanders," and he's off for half a column. Dick, moreover, fancies himself no little as a judge of poetry. And such poetry. He is, undoubtedly, the world's worst picker. This ac counts for the popularity of the "Line Book." Recall the fact that your constant column reader moves his lips when he reads, and you will see why such a compilation as the "Line Book" must inevitably become an institution. In one respect, I owe Mr. Little a good deal. For a number of years, it has been my habit to collect (every one has some little insanity of the sort) the world's worst poetry; and I seldom pick up his column without encountering at least one perfect specimen at the top of the "Line." BUT this is giving the fellow a little more space than he de serves. If R. H. L. is the acme of inanity, Keith Preston brings to much the same endowments a cer tain professorial verve which is not lacking in unintended humor. To this he often adds a streak of mal ice reminiscent of the feline spe cies. He is, one must admit, much more intelligent than Little and not nearly so sentimental. The chief characteristic of his column is its colorlessness, as that of its conductor is narrowness and pre judice. AS for Riquarius, he is really the only column-conductor worthy of the name in the city. A year or two ago, Gilbert Seldes (he of the seven lively) undertook, in the columns of Vanity Fair, to psyche the various columnists of the country. With the exception of the late B. L. T., Riquarius was the only Chicago conductor whom he found deserving of mention. In this, I would agree with him. Sel des then went on to point out that Riq. was in danger of being ruined by his contributors. With this, too, I may agree, when I recall that he has even been known to print my own poetry. The truth is, Riquarius is as human . a human being as any it is my pleas ure to know. He is extremely tol erant and, despite the fact that he has a professorial past, has also a very distinct sense of humor. This humor often gets him into trouble, or rather, it gets the other fellow into hot water and a boiling rage. For his humor frequently becomes a playful — always playful — malice. He takes a devilish glee in starting something; and then, he bends over, kisses his victim on the fore head and proposes a little game of stud. He spoils the days, and prob ably a good part of the nights, of Keith Preston and Teddy Linn by treating them in this fashion. Riquarius really has a very fine feeling for poetry and literature, though his taste in the latter is cap able of being as terrible as Keith Preston's at times. As to his personal habits, he plays the organ, lives at the Dunes and writes zig-zag or escalator verse. He is also, incidentally, the laziest man I have ever known. I feel I cannot describe him better than by saying he is the finest enemy a man might wish for. —SAMUEL PUTNAM Women? Oh yes ... . But purely decorative, dear. They must he decorative. THE CHICAGOAN 13 MU/IOXL NOTE/ THE official musical season hav ing been inaugurated by a long and dull treatise on Beethoven by Dr. Edward Moore, the well- known sports writer, we may pass to a consideration of the first of Mr. Stock's concerts. The meat of the program was the D minor symphony of Cesar Franck now become a fixture in the programs of every symphony in the world. I have heard it con ducted by several gentlemen. Rhene-Baton of the Pasdeloup treats it as if it were a poor but honest working girl and he were the mustached dog with the mort gage. Walter Damrosch uses it as a mirror to reflect certain gestures and mannerisms long become tire some to those who have had them to watch for years. Bruno Walter approaches it with a fearsome and awkward tread and robs it of its lithesomeness, particularly in the middle movement. Of all those whom I have heard give it inter pretation the nearest to the spirit of its creator were Stock and Gab riel Pierne. The second half of this initial concert was less interesting. Stock does something curiously bad with the Firebird Suite of Strawinsky and you are never sure quite what it is. The magical fowl neither burns nor flies. The first three movements particularly lacked that sense of slumbering potency, of dormant metrical intensity im parted to them by Stokowski. And the demoniac dance, with its fan tastic syncopations, was ruined by some of the worst horn-playing heard to date in the coliseum of Messrs. Wessels and Voegeli. The athletic Dr. Moore remarked that "the players were in mid-season form", but he must have failed to notice that the horn section was in need of signal practise. IF the eminent dramatic critic will permit the intrusion I should like to go into the recent Newman- Whiteman-Gershwin controversy over the values of jazz music, via Tip-Toes, a musical comedy — Book by Bolton, tunes by Gershwin — recently opened at the Illinois. In brief, what are the issues joined? Mr. Ernest Newman, eru dite and worldly music critic of the London Times, hears Paul Whiteman in England. With pen grasped firmly in hand he pro ceeds to pulverize Paul, charging him with allegiance to a musical form, vile in its essence, without true rhythm or distinction of mel ody, barren of the originality it boasts. He asseverates that the supposedly distinctive alignments of measure — the prevalence of cross-rhythm and complex synco pation — can be found in music cen turies old; and, further, that the rearrangement of "classical" tunes by dance orchestras does nothing to revitalize them and is in the worst of musical bad taste. Und so weiter, with a plethora of spleen not customary for this veteran of veteran critics. And, partly be cause he is the lordliest commenta tor on music on the Continent, partly because they agree with him, his colleagues on the various Brit ish dailies join in the hue and cry. Through Variety and other American journals, including one so sober as the Literary Digest, the genial Mr. Whiteman is given the chance to defend himself. And his defense is good. He remarks that he has no aspirations to wear a musical silk hat, that upon his head reposes a most humble crown, the same brown derby that lolls on the end of his trombones with such devastating results. To his music the nation dances. He tricks it out in the most ingratiating har monic manner. If he lays irrever ent hands on a "classic" — whatever that is — it is to make thousands more familiar with the tune or to refurbish it because it no longer has any shine of its own. For ex ample, The Song of India or the Miserere. And if American talent is discovered like Gershwin or Car penter, bent on making an honest woman out of jazz by weaving it into a symphonic pattern, White- man furnishes the medium of ex pression with a corps of experts as highly trained and as skilful as the cohorts of Stock, Stokowski or Damrosch. The journals also hurry to Ger shwin, but he is too busy fashion ing good tunes to say anything significant. He speaks mild" and pallid words about "experiments in harmony" and "the future of jazz" and returns to the task of keeping the country whistling. As he languidly strokes the piano the gentlemen of the press depart. WHAT- is this jazz music? If you listen to it in its most seductive manifestations at the Illi nois Theatre you will soon dis cover its charm. There it is tricked out and plumed with muted horns and the ingenious prattle of two grand, grand pianos serving as 14 Greek Chorus for the witchery of one Queenie Smith. She, the ras cal, sings pleasant songs about looking for a boy who's looking for a girl. The orchestra and the saucy pianos ramble along with her. It is all very gay and insouciant. You are mildly excited and never bored. You feel the magic of sentiment, but sentiment of today, reminiscent of love at the Ritz, Chryslers with rumble seats, the sweep of Broad way, the cocktails mixed before little dinners to speculative recipes. It is a music of the moment and as much a part of the American scene as the pavane and the gaillard and the musette were at another bespangled day. That some of these ancient dances served as ancestors for the movements of the symphony means nothing to the future of Mr. Gershwin's tunes. Their descendents had a high duty to fulfill. He may not have a musi cal off-spring. That doesn't make him the less charming now. What does Mr. Newman want? He is angry because a kind of music is ephemeral when that particular quality is its chief attrac tion. It seems, for once at least, that the wearer of the silk-hat lacks his usual dignity and that there is a conviction in the way a certain brown bowler is clamped over the dome of the dance-king. —ROBERT POLLAK In Praise PERHAPS there is no easier way to get rid of the inhibi tions imposed by a soidisant civili zation and nursery-inculcated self control than to be sufficiently an cestral or British to have an attack of gout. It has been said by emi nent authorities as well as butlers, footmen and valets, cognoscenti of the innermost possibilities of in timate swearing, that the vocabu lary of the habitual sufferer from gouty twinges is richer than Rabel ais in his most inspired moments. The British hunting field is a splendid ground for enriching one's library of emphatic cuss words. But I am informed that the lang uage of the whipper-in when a scent is lost, or a master told of a shot fox, is as a Sunday School com pared to the American business man repeating the things that he wishes had happened in "gay Paree" when pitted against the vituperation of your truly gouty. And to be gouty is to assume a valetudenarian coat of armor. It is essentially a disorder of the bon vivant and the man about town. It flowers on the choicest of pre war port, on terrapin, turtle, reed birds, sole a la Morny, and such like Lucullan delights. It can be assumed when duns (here we pic ture the days of Fleet prisons) be come insistent. It terminates when the attitude of recumbency plus a distended toe glorified by gaudy bandages — preferably an Indian shawl of quality — begin to pall. I am told, by the way, that it is exceedingly painful. But think of the unique opportunity it gives to voice one's private opinion with out a qualm on all who venture within long distance of one's chaise longue ! ITS history, as a malady of the truly distinguished, is lost in the steam that rolled around the frag rant stews of pre-Lucullan days. It doubtless attacked the ancient Roman ; and who knows how many THE CHICAGOAN of Gout of those unfortunate misconcep tions of the true relationship be tween Christians and lions may not have been brought about by the gouty malaise of the boisterous Caesar politically dominant? One is assured that Rabelais, that soul of whom little enough is known to make his own voice apparent in solo, knew what it was to undergo a "touch of gout". It was the fami liar of Charles II, and doubtless stalked the London Mall beside the goggle-eyed dog playmates of that astute juggler with public moneys. It troubled the delight ful Pepys, "o'nights". It later made life miserable for the polite Ches terfield — he of the (pornographic- ally appendixed) letters, and for one Horace Walpole. Yet not too miserable for that pioneer collector of objets d'art to write the most in triguing letters, possibly, since the days of Suetonius. De Gramont gossipped scurrilously through a career of gout. Saint Simon waxed vitriolic when doubtless probed severely about the vulnerable great toe. The eloquent Pitt, afterwards Lord Chatham, was carried into the House (the British Parliament) in torture so great that he carried an unpopular measure. It is to be seen, therefore, that gout acts as a stimulant to wit, to that satire without which an arid world would go without a fillip. It being a disorder of the great good, it is careful to select victims of the highest social rank or mental cali ber. The esoteric Havelock Ellis has acclaimed it king of the dis eases attacking great men. Let all true worshippers at the sign of personages, be they mere tuft hunters or what we may call Petronii at large, drink that last glass of cobwebby Cockburn alike to the memory of the periwigged connoisseurs who held up slender goblets to the lights of early wax candles, and to the desecrator of the peace of lordly great toes. —LILLIAN MACDONALD THE CHICAGOAN 15 The Parade Passes By It was in the days of horse-cars that a ten-year-old door boy at Mandels dreamed of getting the big gest job in the store. Wonder if Dennis Kelley dreamed of being a knight, too? Say what you will. there's something canny about Irish dreams! with discounts and profits — don't forget the profits — with mark-ons and mark-ups — the customer is never right — Grand Rapids antiques on the seventh floor — and a sale on baby bibs in the basement Almost as often as you find scraps of Sears Roebuck "literature" on farm, sea shore and mountain top, you see newspaper headlines begin ning with "Rosenwald Gives" — And — giving does seem to be the favor ite indoor sport of Sears Roebuck's president. "How can you save money on clothes?" asked a worried young man. "Sell 'em," replied Maurice L. Rothschild. Edna I. Asmus and Albert J. Carreno The sleuths — hot on the trail of some incriminatory information about a certain State Street store manager — have discovered one ghastly fact. Elmer Stevens is a radio bug! 16 THE CHICAGOAN ARTGALLEMEJ pulling the lion's tail BY the time this number of The Chicagoan appears upon the stands, the thirty-ninth annual exhibition of American paintings and sculpture, commonly known as the "American Show," will have been opened at the Art Institute, of Chicago, the Gold Coast sector will have had a most delightful afternoon of tea and chatter in the galleries, our Great Aunt Mathilde, who writes those amusing "reviews" for the self- admitted World's Greatest will have had her usual fit over our "leading colorists," Freddy Grant, Wellington Reynolds, Gerald Frank, etc., and, in short, every thing will be just too lovely for words. But the state of art in Chi cago — or anywhere else, for that matter — will remain just what it was before Mr. Harsche's very se lect little party took place. For you are not to imagine for a moment that an American show has anything whatever to do with art. It hasn't. Or if this one should prove^ to have, I, for one, promise dutifully to drop dead at State and Madison during the rush hour. The A. S., indeed, is an annual atrocity, which has come to be looked for ward to with horror by the super sensitive who care for plastic crea tion, and with anticipatory chuckles by those whose aestheticism is tempered with humor. ALL this may be a trifle dis concerting to the aesthetic commoner who is used to viewing with awe those Michigan Avenue lions and what reposes behind them. If he knew what takes place behind them, he would follow the editorial-writer's example and "view with alarm." For it is with alarm that every artist, every knowing friend of art, views not merely the Art Institute of Chi cago, but all institutions of the sort. In France, they have long since learned this lesson. The French In dependents proved the point over a period of thirty years. It is a sig nificant fact that outside the ranks of the Independents — those, that is, who did not submit their work to a 'jury— not a single picture was painted in France in all those years that would be worth hanging up in your bootlegger's backroom. Officialdom, to put the matter in a few words, is the death of art. Rather, it is the parent of an art that is stillborn. Art museums are all right in their places — as mu seums—but they have nothing whatever to do with living art. The same goes for art schools. All art schools are deadly, but when you put an art school into a museum, you are killing a corpse. All this is a digression for the benefit of simple souls who are im pressed by those lions, and who think that because pictures are hung in a building labeled an "art institute" they must be works of art. In Chicago, the truth is, official dom has been carried to an, at times, almost unbelievable height of provincial maliciousness — unbe lievable, if we did not know that conditions are even more laughably horrific in other and smaller cities — in Milwaukee, Minneapolis, St. Louis, etc. — and that they are very much the same in all "institutes" the world over. However, we cannot go into this ; it would take us too far afield. One may simply say, there was a time when the best artists were turned down by the official 'juries," whereas now not only the best, but even ordinarily good artists no longer enter their works. If you should find a real artist in the American show, you may be sure he is there by invitation. For the jury system has broken down; it has slain itself. It is no longer anything more than a pre tence, a blind. Most of the works are invited, and who are the invited ones? The small town pets, the old standbys, the good little boys who play along. BUT all this is very saddening. Let's speak of a funeral or something cheerful. There is one important exhibit in Chicago at the present time, and that is the modern French show at the Chester Johnson galleries. We will tell you something of this next time. For the present, we have not recovered as yet from a certain breathless Picasso — AMONG Chicago artists who would laugh in your face if you suggested the possibility of their submitting their work to an Art Institute jury is H. Gregory Pruscheck. Mr. Pruscheck has just finished staging a one-man water- color show in the home of Mrs. Sophia Delavan Cowles, 6311 Ken- more Avenue. I have followed Mr. Pruscheck's work for some years, since he first made his appearance with the Chicago No-jury Society of Artists, and I have found him a most interesting personality in paint. I had known his work in oil, but I was slightly astonished at the virtuosity he displayed in the water-color, which is for him a comparatively new medium. He deserves a wider showing than is to be found in a drawing room. —SAMUEL PUTNAM 17 I Interview the Devil and find him not at all as bad men should be THE CHICAGOAN IT was rather a surprise to find Hell so very much like a small American city. I was directed to the City Hall, where I told a re spectable, janitor-like person, (I learned afterwards he had been a deacon) whom it was I wished to see. There I found the object of my quest, gently twiddling his tail, as he sat dictating a letter to a red headed sickly young person whom I recognized immediately as a stenographer from Beloit, Kansas whose lack of skill to spell even the simplest words had drawn at tention to her abilities, even before the Juvenile Court had been forced to curb her excessive sexual zeal. The mayor, (I guess that's what he was) nodded most affably. He indicated a chair. I had remem bered to wear asbestos clothing so I carefully sat down. "I see you have no notebook," remarked the Devil. "I'm not really a reporter," I said, "I have no curiosity about peoples' hidden life or their ail ments." He sighed. "I'm afraid, then," he said, feelingly "I may have to forego the pleasure of your com pany in, er, the ages to come." "All the more reason that our in tercourse should be pleasant for the brief period in which we meet." "What exactly is it you wish to know?" he asked, "I will tell you at once that I don't like you. I am so used to people who beat about the bush, whine, snivel, and cant, that a direct question gives me twitchings of the horns. Luckily, however, I have an abundance of medical skill always available." "I have not the slightest doubt of that," I said. "I read your Sunday papers," continued the president of Dis, "and I suppose you would like to know something of this place." "I should greatly like to see a few celebrities — Nero, Cleopatra, and so forth. I've always under stood you had quite a few distin guished guests." "I'm sorry, that's not so". He sighed, again, "Nero was here for a while, but he decided we had no musical taste, and preferred to demolish himself." "You don't mean you have pro hibition here", I cried. "O very mttch so. In fact every thing is prohibited. You musn't move off the sidewalks, and you can't pick a flower of sulphur with out a special permit signed by a physician and countersigned at this office. And we close at five." "But about these celebrities," I pursued. "Well, the plain truth, (some thing I'm not supposed to deal in, therefore you're going to have it) is that we don't get any. Celeb rities have brains. We get the nit writs. You doubtless know the story of the bawd who declared of her charges, 'If they'd sense they wouldn't be here.' She was right." He took up his tail again and signed to the stenographer to leave the room. "That is pretty rough on you — you seem like a smart man." "The smartest," he said, "the very smartest. Why the tips I hand out to business men in the United States alone would fill a volume of 'How to Get On in the World.' I'm a public benefactor. In fact, big business. The churches, and above all the charitable societies, would simply go to pieces if it were not for my gratuitous promptings. The instigator of graft, I never benefit one iota from my discovery." I felt quite sympathetic. "But tell me who you do get down here," I asked, "there must be people who buy the lots, etc. and go to the doctors." "I get a great many women from the Ladies' Aid Societies. Pro hibition has netted me some ven dors of wood alcohol. Sentiment alists who pamper the sick and for get the well are also very good, er, perhaps not customers, boarders, constituents, electors, shall we say. (I'm rather interested in politics and we are quite good politicians down here)." "Not a very pleasant place," I said, rising to leave, "I believe I'm glad I am not a suitable incum bent." As we waited at the station, (my host courteously allowed me to ride in his car, driven by a man who had raced an express in his former life and was therefore con sidered sufficiently incompetent to drive in his hereafter) we saw a train rush by. "That's the Heaven special" said the Devil. "Know who they are? The passengers, I mean?" I shook my head. "They're the healthy husbands of invalid women," he said, "their patience under a terrible affliction has earned them such enormous halos that they say Peter has been obliged to have the Pearly Gates enlarged." — PETRUS HENDRICK 18 TUECUICAGOAN IF the twenty-first verse of the forty-ninth chapter of Genesis means nothing to your jazz-age mind, and if you are unable to un earth trie family Bible from under the Cabell and Dreiser in your bookcase, be not dismayed. The author of these fascinating mem oirs, Mr. C. Lewis Hind, has oblig ingly informed us in the preface that Naphtali (one of the sons of Jacob) was, according to his father, "a hind let loose; he giveth goodly words." Mr. Hind let loose in one of the most fascinating and still puzzling periods of literary history, the 'eighteen-nineties,' does not spare detail. Either he has a most as tounding memory, or he was a re markably assiduous Boswell for that unique and intriguing age. Do you wonder why Sargent never painted the beautiful Mrs. Pat Campbell (and my dears, she did ask him to, and received what was probably her only refusal from any man) ? You will find the answer in Naphtali. Do you really know anything about that lovable and unreliable genius, Francis Thomp son? Mr. Hind tells gently of his intemperance and of his greatness. The author of "Naphtali" knew them all — Aubrey Beardsley, Max Beerbohm, Stephen Crane, W. D. Howells, the Pall Mall Gazette, and the Yellow Book, with all its pale sisters. He saw, and he recorded with much penetration and humor, the rising of the yellow star that gave to the 'nineties' its peculiar eerie brilliance. And he saw that star fade and die in the dawn of the twentieth century and the great war. He wandered from England to America; he saw Henley and Dowson give way to Amy Lowell and Edwin Arlington Robinson. Anent Amy Lowell, the anec dotes with which the work is plen tifully sprinkled are amusing and illuminating, as, for instance, this one. "I had been invited to supper at the house of a New York hostess who collects lions, lionesses, and cubs. The seat next to mine was vacant. When the supper had Boo Kf- more about the naughty nineties progressed pleasantly for half an hour, the door was thrown open, and in marched a large formidable woman with an assured smile, and no apology for being late. She took the seat next to mine and at once usurped the conversation, readily and animatedly. I listened with delight, and wondered who she might be. I began to put ques tions to her, mainly about poetry, which she answered slightly, with half her intelligence. After a re buff rather more pointed, I said suddenly, ' I believe you are Miss Amy Lowell.' She flashed her hand some eyes upon me, and said, 'Who the hell did you think I was?" THERE is a story almost as good about William Butler Yeats. "One night after a dinner at the Trencher club, a literary din ing club founded by Herbert Trench, he and I went on to W. B. Yeats' bare rooms off the Euston road to hear him read his latest poems. Yeats knelt at a deal table upon which was one guttering can dle; he read and read, very beauti fully. Trench fell asleep. Yeats went on reading. In the small hours, I aroused Trench. We stumbled down the stairs, and as I opened the hall door, I heard Yeats still declaiming fine verse to an empty room." One more quotation, altho this one is well known, of Mark Twain, who, when called upon for an after dinner speech, said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Homer is dead, Dante is dead, Shakespeare is dead, and I don't feel very well myself." SO many quotations may seem unnecessary, but "Naphtali" is that kind of book. If you want to shine at a dinner party, do read it. The book is very well illustrated with photographs of many interest ing people. There is a charming picture of Lionel Johnson "from a photograph taken at New College, Oxford, in 1889." It shows him sit ting up very straight, with his arms folded bravely, the mortar-board he wears coming just above the chair back, and serious eyes look ing out from a childlike face. His mother must have been so proud of that picture ! For contrast, there is a gorgeous picture of Cov entry Patmore, from the Sargent portrait. All these things go to make up a very valuable contribution to our knowedge of this interesting liter ary period. Mr. Hind's style is clear, and has a certain charming familiarity, altho it is rather journalistic at times. Artistically, the book does not compare with Holbrook Jackson's "The Eighteen- Nineties," but it is a living account of what these people said and did in every day life. In the preface, the author re marks that "writing one's memoirs is not a vain indulgence; into it intrudes history, wonder, pity and amusement." They all appear in these memoirs, but they do not in trude; they are what make them such delightful reading. —LILLIAN ROCHE GALPIN THE CHICAGOAN Another Bread Line don't forget your checks, please I HAVE a very definite antipathy toward that American institu tion — the cafeteria. Throughout the United States, there isn't a town boasting a population that doesn't have the inevitable cafe teria. In fact, the propensity of that slaughter house of appetites seems to be to "multiply and re plenish the earth". The other day I longed to in dulge in the luxury of being served dainty food by dainty maids. But the stubborn flatness of my purse and the empty hollow in my stom ach sent me scurrying, as usual, toward the home of "self service". It was with a real pang of misery that I found myself pushing through the huge swinging glass door, and falling into place at the end of the long noon "bread line." The odor of simmering food, how ever, and the anticipation of select ing 'something different' from the appetizing display created, as usual, a not unhappy state of mind. I took one of those pewter trays which always discolors the hands, dove into one of the "tool boxes" and secured the number of knives, forks and spoons I was likely to need, and completed these prelim inary maneuvers by spiriting away one of those coarse napkins with the name of the cafeteria done in red cotton across one corner. I was ready, and, as usual, quite eager to decide my menu. AFTER making a somewhat cowardly decision on nut- bread because the good looking man in front of me took nut-bread, I was confronted with the bewilder ing assortment of steaming pans of food. Here and there were foods I yearned to try. But — would I like them? There's such a risk about attaching oneself to an "un known," however delectable it may appear. Should I, then, resort to my faithful standby, roast beef, or should I try some baked beans? But, as usual, I found the irritat ing attendant on the other side of the counter with spoon poised, waiting to fill my plate. There was something akin to exaspera tion in her eyes as she glared at me. Helpless, embarrassed, and finally wTholly vexed, I felt like cry ing out : "Oh, give me anything!" In stead, and with a sense of ignoble defeat, I mumbled the usual for mula: "Roast beef, please — and — yes — some peas." I proceeded to the dessert counter. The line was being held up by someone who couldn't de cide whether he wanted pie-a-la- mode, or just pie, or ice cream. Poor wretch ! Finally I reached the dessert dis play, and hastily demanded the first thing I saw, which was, as I discovered a moment later, nothing but Brown Betty; and how I hate Brown Betty ! AT last I saw a table being vacated. With the usual un becoming haste, I made a bee line for that table which, to my dismay, was wray up in front of the room 19 where only the glass windows separated me from the pedestrians of the street. Oh, for that orchestral din, in stead of the hubbub produced by rattling dishes, hundreds of feet clicking over tiled floors, the never- ending click of the cash register, the scraping of chairs, and the in termittent noises of the street whenever any one went in or out! And — as usual in the intervals of comparative quiet, I could hear the crescendoes and decrescendoes as the man at the next table gurgled playfully over his soup. On this day, as on other days, I found the usual unmistakable evi dences of freedom from restraint. Over there to my right, a man, hav ing forgotten to secure an extra fork for his pie, was meeting the situation by giving his fork a spec tacular cleansing with his tongue. I took a deep breath of Chicago's fresh sooty air, and experienced profound relief therefrom. Involun tarily I shook myself as a puppy does after a moist encounter and, as the puppy thinks — ruminating on the discomfort of getting all wet "never again", so did I. How ever, I know, as the puppy must have known deep down in his funny little heart, that there'll be many more moist encounters for him and more cafeteria dinners for me. —EDNA I. ASMUS 20 THE CHICAGOAN IT seems, and certainly is, amaz ing that the theatre can remain so consistently bad. It is not only that there is nothing new in the present Chicago showing. We have, perforce, not through choice, practically reconciled ourselves to that fact : it is, moreso, the in ferior, amateurish, blind manner in which last decade's promotion is thrown at you which is so in sulting. We're still waiting for some manager with sufficient nerve to come out and call his show ah anthology. Off hand it would seem impos sible to pick at random five perfor mances and find among them not one that raises its head above a picnic stunt feast or amateur night at the Rex, but that is about the degree of promise attained by the five showings reviewed in this issue. The Jazz Singer MR. JESSEL'S latest vehicle should have been a good show; its theme, although, again, not new, is at least interesting and forms an excellent basis for situa tion. But the ghost of Miss Nichols' bank book which has been parading the theatres for three years was, to the producers, so haunting that the play, as a result, is one of the. weakest in town. It certainly is the most unflattering to the audience; every detail is ex plained — and repeated — with amaz ing minuteness. And there has never been, since The Baggage Coach Ahead and East Lynne, such a deliberate, pagan attempt to make one cry. Anyone who has seen the show will, without reser vation, recommend it to all soidi- sant martyrs who go to the theatre for the purpose of feeling — and showing — their misery. The jokes are all financial and, because they give the audience an opportunity to store up wind so as to enjoy more completely the next series of sobs, are completely and enthusiastically enjoyed. Mr. Jessel does some good work. Alias the Deacon THIS frothy comedy in which, certainly, there is nothing post-glacial is, like a gift horse, not to be scrutinized too savagely ; to do so would leave nothing but a rather interesting prologue. But Alias the Deacon, like most comedies, it seems, and certainly like most of the present Chicago showings, must be considered a gift horse and accepted as one; therefore the hokum — and there's plenty of it — must be overlooked. If you're willing to do that, the play, in a curious manner, is enter taining. The deacon, unquestionably, is stemmed from the old time stage with jabs of stock characters as recent as Lightnin' Bill Jones and Mr. Hawley of The Old Soak. He carries with him the same smiling casualness and the same demonstrated taste for liquor. The charm of the play (the trick has been successful for fifty years) lay in the knowledge that someone — usually a villain (the play is full of them) — is about to lose the fillings of his back teeth.. And such slight act is, always, performed by the same smiling deacon. The opening scene, although in teresting, is decidedly marred by the role of one sexual moron who, in his clownish priaprism, is about as irritating and unconvincing as the Michigan Avenue Bridge. First Love THIS farce is typical of the usual French glorification of love — at least the French, with their re putation for being polite, insist on calling it love. The play has a certain tone of culture, but it is very weak and very usual. There probably was a first act, but I doubt that anyone can remember it. In the second part, which is by far the best of the' three, Miss Bainter does some good work, but she looks about as much like a Hungarian maiden as Theda Bara looks like little Eva. The third act, like most third acts, is weak. Besides a great deal of overacting on the part of Miss Bainter there seems to be a great inconsistency, inasmuch as anyone who experienced so little difficulty in capturing the son should be so completely at a loss as to the rudi ments of that art in obtaining the father. Of course (the play being of French origin) she does finally THE CHICAGOAN 21 Miss Fay Bainter trying to register-^at the same time~-hoth innocence and experience while waiting for the amorous liquor course of the third act dinner in First Love. One is to assume that she is looking forward to the alcoholic dessert with dread. ,* get the father, and the inarticulate son arrives in time to utter, event ually, a tragic "you." MR. CARROLL'S Advertising Revue which he has appropri ately called his Vanities was, for tunately, due for only a short run — the only promising thing about the show. A few stale jokes pok ing through a mess of inferior dancing, with Mr. Holtz and Mr. Cook attempting to hold up nine of the ten pillars. We heartily suggest that Mr. Carroll see Mr. LeMaire and his Affairs before putting on another revue. One Man's Woman AFTER seeing this anthology, we retract all derogatory statements made about any show heretofore reviewed. The one amazing thing about the play is the fact that they could crowd so many lines from so many different plays in two hours time. Autumn Alone, I walked Into the creaking dusk. I saw the sky As pink As rabbits' eyes. The waves Were white lace ruffles On a gown. And long thin lines Of nervous geese Formed Crooked arrowheads Across the moon. —J. McGRATH Voiceless Yearnings Gold, fame and affection; These I want. These I know I want. But the voiceless yearnings Which I cannot answer — Which I cannot fathom, — These break my soul. —RAYMOND KRESENSKY 22 THE CHICAGOAN Clipping Coupons or how to go mad without pain I I AM forever cutting off coupons, only mine come from maga zines. The clipping of them, how ever, is only the incipient part of it. After the coupons are cut out they must be sent to various ad dresses with a dime, sometimes two dimes. In every magazine I pick up there are numerous cou pons patiently waiting to be cut out and sent on a long journey. Oftentimes the journey is short. I never keep them waiting long. And the returns ! Aye, the re turns ! That's where the fun comes in — the waiting for days for the little bundles of joy, the arrivals, the openings with nervous fingers and the rewards. It is all this sort of thing that keeps me from hav ing breakdowns, as it were. There are so many articles that a coupon with, maybe, a coin will bring to the sender. There are divers kinds of tooth pastes, cold creams, soaps, facial creams, hair nets, talcum powders, booklets with pictures, booklets without pictures, booklets telling how to get banjos, French courses, treat ments that will take off twenty pounds in twenty minutes, book lets disclosing the way to get 'books that will help one find a better job or rid oneself of a cold or an itch or dry hair. Oh, there are so many things that coupons will bring. I suppose the best way to ex plain this delightful avocation that I have named "Clipping Coupons" or "Coupon Clipping" is to give my readers an idea of the number of things that I have received by send ing coupons to their home offices. I HAVE in my spare bedroom which I use as a storeroom enough trial tubes of shaving creams to lather completely all the men landed at Gallipoli in beetle boats and all the unmarried men in the Lewis and Clark expedition. I have, too, enough trial cans of shaving powders to make a nice, soft lather for all the Princeton undergraduates and for the entire student body of Dartmouth, if the entire student body of Dartmouth ever shaved, and for that matter, if the Princetonians ever had to. The tubes of cold creams that are cached in my storeroom would, if they were put end to end, stretch probably a third of the way around Catalina Island. If the creams were edible and were squeezed out and spread on rye bread, there wouldn't be enough rye bread. If the creams were ice cream, there would be enough to dessert a mass banquet of all Elks, Odd Fellows and Meat Packers. Until last week I had a great number of trial cans of talcum powders, when I gave them to a motion picture company. The cans when emptied will exude enough powder to represent the snow in the next seven James Oliver Cur- wood pictures. I have hung all my hairnets around the back porch and there I play at battledore and shuttle cock and handball, and there, too, I practice driving. never have time to do more than glance through the booklets that come to me in every mail delivery. I save them all, of course, and tie them in bundles and sell them to the old-papers man. The income, nominal though it be, helps to buy stamps. The many trial bottles of hair- oils and furniture polish that come to me, I use for furniture polish and for washing the car. That just goes to show how useful many of these rewards are. I sign my name to so many cou pons that I have developed a very handsome chirography; and as for the addressing, I write my address so often that I am actually begin ning to remember it. The pastime has become a part of my very existence. I can no more resist a coupon that is star ing at me provocatively than I can say "Miss Sally Scissorsnatcher Sews Saturdays", and I can't say that and I never could. It was only this morning that my old roommate, George, came in while I was in the act of clipping a coupon. "What are you cutting from that magazine, August?" he asked. "Oh, just a coupon which, when sent with a dime, will bring a pamphlet entitled "Restoring Old Umbrellas", I replied looking out at the rain. "I'm going to send it to my congressman." D. P. Evening How I shall laugh when all the stars are mine for the power to seek. How I shall laugh to know my voice will sound when the wind shall shriek, And thunder down the silences, most any sweet night in the week! How I shall jest with the comets tails, and tweak them as they pass, And scatter the roses of the dawn like daisies on the grass, Or sleep in a cloud with the rain and dews, a glorious golden mass. And when the days creep up to make the sum of an earthly year, How I shall laugh when they find me not, the ones whom I've held so dear, But who cannot recall my simple name, or hold me in love or fear. But I shall sing all down the months in a tireless symphony And forge the mail for the crickets coats, nor waste my sympathy, For those who never have thought my thoughts, nor cared for the soul of me ! — PETRUS HENDRICK THE CHICAGOAN 23 IT'S a French restaurant, with German beersteins on the man tle, an American flag on the wall, Italian soup on the table, and Chicago gourmets eating it. It's on Rush Street, on the first floor of an old house, and the fam ily Julien run it. The two sons and the youngest daughter are in the kitchen (and such a shiny kit chen — the kind that smells of truffles and Kitchen Klenzer, which, of course, is a perfect and rare aesthetic combination for a kitchen smell). Marie the eighteen year old girl with the honey col ored hair helps Madame in the din ing room to serve the sixty or seventy guests. This matter of service is simple and effective. There are five long- tables in the room, each seating twelve. At each place is silver, a glass, a tall bottle of cider (not too soft to be unpleasant) and six plates piled up in decreasing sizes. (The fact that they bear inscrip tion varying from the P. R. R. of the Pennsylvania Railroad to the B. C. C, probably of the Baltusrol Country Club, merely adds to the cosmopolitan air.) The bowl of soup or the great platter of lobsters or frog legs or chicken or of whatever the course for the evening consists are placed at one end of the table and passed down. This, of course, eliminates service and is conducive to friendliness among the eaters. You simply can't refuse to speak to the gentle man with the dignified goatee next to you if a chicken wing flies onto his lap from the platter as you pass it to him, and the lady with three ropes of pearls and the Lanvin dress at the head of the table loses her dignity and gains conversa tional power while serving well- oiled lettuce from an enormous /MART RENDEZVOUJ wooden bowl for the hungry stud ent who wants a double portion. Double portions are a habit in this establishment. Good Madame Julien is deeply and obviously of fended when the plates are not passed up empty, beams when a second portion is accepted, and in sists in friendly fashion on a third for those patrons whom she re members and therefore are her friends and particular guests. This personal interest is touching and sometimes embarrassing for the courses are many and, fortunately, are all irresistible. The atmosphere is as delicious as the food, particularly the thaw ing out processes which are in evitable. The canary bird high in his cage furnishes the orchestra and the twinkly-eyed man in the gilt frame who may be Papa Joff re or Papa Julien smiles be nignly on. And Madame Julien returns his smile. Tiny, wiry, calling each woman missus and each man doctor (her assumptions are often more apt than she knows) she reprimands you for being late (supper begins promptly at six- thirty) or scolds you for looking tired and always asks you to "come seen us again", holding out Tuesday and Friday frog legs as a bait. The Immovable Dining Car It is said of Tip Top Inn that it is the first place a young man of Chicago takes the Lady of his choice (or of weakness of mind to accept him) to air her Solitaire, proving its eminent respectability. They usually eat in the Nursery, which is the most charming of the four rooms that top the Pull man building (Chicago's most famous antique) wherein the elite of the city are fed decorously and ceremoniously with plenty o f time to enjoy the room decorations between courses. There is an English room — mutton chops go well w i-t'h the crimson coats of the hunters on the walls — and an orchestra plus an organ 'to aid digestion in need of a stimulant. The place reeks with dignity, but a pleasant dignity. Fairies on the walls of the nursery are color ful but well-behaved fairies. The Sleeping Beauty sleeps with dig nity and Little Miss Muffet muffs like a U. of C. end catching a for ward pass — with dignity. And the cooking is "cuisine." The ' patrons are, for the most part, regular, and, curiously en ough, bear an amazingly consistent racial resemblance. _RUTH frank 24 THE CHICAGOAN Potential Enemy I wish that I had known you long ago— Before your eyes had seen too much of pain; Before your lips had tightened with the strain Of new campaigns against the an cient foe. I wish that it were not too late to know A voice which must have been like love's refrain When you had not yet learned to chant the vain Harsh choruses which hail this passing show. If we had only known each other :hen, rviid squandered stolen moments recklessly — And laughed together at the strife • of men Who barter life for trinkets of de gree, We could be friends — nor pause to wonder when The death of our acquaintanceship will be . . . —RALPH HACKETT The Gold Coast and how it got its start — according to our most authentic Indian records T!-IE Outside Reading Club didn't last long. It was suc ceeded by The Arlen-Haters' Club with Godfrey, Indian Chief, as chairman. The existence of this club was only temporary, too ; soon it gave way to the general demand for something of a more militant nature, thus did the Boy Scout movement start. And what an ad mirable and pertinent thing it was that the Scout movement started at this time. For no sooner had the movement got well under way than out broke the Streeter Rebellion. Not many Chicagoans know much of the Streeter Rebellion ; possibly, as my man, Claude, says, that is why it isn't called the Well - Known Streeter Rebellion. Later in the same year Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclama tion and Sunset, Plantation, and * The Entertainers got their start. Now he sure to say something swell ahout my show. Say it's simply delicious Then it was that the Streeter forces, commanded outwardly by Captain Homer Jay Streeter, D. S. O., but, in reality, by Ma Streeter, hoisted the banner of re bellion on their Class B sloop, the Nancy Lee, named after Captain Streeter's great aunt Lydia Haw thorn. For several years no one paid the least bit of attention to the rebels on the lake front. In fact, no one paid any attention to the lake front probably because everyone was busy electing presi dents or trying to crash B. L. T.'s column. ANYWAY, just about this time somebody thought the lake front would be a hell of a good place for apartment hotels, and in order to catch the spirit of the early gold coast activity, we quote here a few paragraphs from the diary of an Ojibwa chief: "August 14. Well, well, here it is Easter and not an egg in the house. No, of course, dear diary, it really isn't Easter; but daddy gave me four gold bangles to-day and four luscious kisses. Daddy is so damned sweet and good and pure, and I really do love him, dear diary, though people, naughty peo ple, do say things." We cannot go on in detail about the diary of the Ojibwa chief, be cause we do not feel, that is Claude and I do not, that the gold coast justifies so much space. The diary of an Ojibwa chief is certainly worth reading. Gay Turtle is the American Pepys. The author's pre-Freudian fantasy should be on the same shelf with Snow Shoe Al, and Johnny V. A. Weaver. It is the kind of book which would provoke such words of praise and criticism as : Amy Leslie : "The man who doesn't like this doesn't like musi cal comedy"; Lowell Sherman : "I love to see a man smoke a pipe". And that is how the Gold Coast got its start. —DONALD PLANT THE CHICAGOAN 25 J\ <Die BOULEVARD I ER MODERN murder-ism seems a far leap from the flamboyant beauty of the shops (the Boule- vardier's subject, of course) but really there is only a bit of a step between the two, for the shop owner has also that jaded "dear public" to please. Merely to display charming wares, in this day of su perlatives, is to waste one's time (and money), for loveliness has be come a common commodity. A corner making a strong bid for more than a casual look is the Gift Shop in the Tobey Furniture Com pany's new store. This shop has emancipated itself from the ordin ary gift shop rule of the maximum of articles to the square inch. The visitor feels more the atmosphere of the artist and less that of the commercial display. One wanders at leisure in a large, sunny room decorated basically in soft green and parchment yellow. Open shelves serve as a delightful back ground for unusual pieces of Euro pean pottery and Oriental art ob jects. Then there is unusual small furniture, so that one actually sees these objets d'art in a normal, in formal surrounding instead of against the hard, unrelenting flat ness of a show case. Lamps of varied sorts add interest and vital ity to the whole balanced display. And there is a remarkably well- chosen collection of English plate. At the windows are collections of crystal and reproductions of old glass to lure either browser or buyer. It's the unusual that draws and holds one's interest in this shop. MC AVOY gets that second look, as well — in the field of: frocks, of course. The casual way in which gowns and wraps are laid over a settle or chair makes one feel ready to step right into them. There is, in the window, a black chiffon velvet wrap that inspired such feeling of mythical ownership. Just the edge of the reddish metal cloth lining shows, but, so natur ally, that one can scarcely believe it the work of the crafty window dresser. True artistry embodies ease whether it be in choosing the correct fork at dinner or in display ing gowns. IT is no mere chance, I fancy, that brings into close proximity a black velvet gown and wrap in Pearlie Powell's window. The en semble conception in evening wear is pleasing and rapidly finding favor. Without sacrificing inter est, the thrown - together appear ance is avoided. Parisiennes had learned long before their Ameri can cousins the value of that unity. And speaking of Parisiennes calls to mind the delightful lingerie that Pearlie Powell and Blum's are showing. It is a pity that such perfection must be concealed; but conventions being what they* are, and they are testy, rigorous things, one can at least be thankful that the shops offer easy consolation in fas cinating frocks and gowns. — K. HULLINGER Grey Day Sleep and a rude awakening, Grey day, loveless, trees sway ing impotent To snatch one cloud hurrying by in the luminous yellow of a horizon. Stream like a narrow knife whose edge is too dull To slit a wrist and make one splash of gaudy red. —LILLIAN MACDONALD <$ft0$ The Resort of Fashion and the Epicure 18 W. Walton Place Opera Club Building For Reservations Phone Delaware 2592 Luncheon Dinner 26 THE CHICAGOAN The Woman Who Was You always were forgetting things That did not matter much: Forgetting to put out the key — To wind the clock — and such . . . And I forgave you willingly ; But how can I forgive The time the world stood still for me — And you forgot to live ? . . . . For The End I shall be silent, then, Having spoken too much . . . I shall be quiet of body, Having moved too swiftly . . . I shall know nothing of it, Knowing too well That silence, quiet, nothingness At the end, Wait hand in hand to taunt me As the price Of victory, And the reward Of defeat —RALPH HACKETT The Opera CZufo may be obtained, with or with out cuisine service, on after noons or evenings, for Private Dances, Teas and Banquets, with the exception of Wednes day and Saturday Nights. By reason of its ten years of service to many of Chicago's Smartest Social Functions the Opera Club is the accepted place for affairs necessitating excellence of service and ap pointments. 18 West Walton Place Tel. Superior 6907 CHICAGO ALLIED ARTS, Inc. presents BOLM BALLET DE LAMARTER, ORCHESTRA Adolph Bolm Ruth Page, Premiere Dansuese Vera Mirova, Guest Dancer First Performance IN A SERIES OF PERFORMANCES SEATS $1 to $3, on sale at Office; Bertha Ott, 624 So. Michigan Ave., Box Offices Eighth Street Theatre and Lyon and Healy. NICOLAS REMISOFF, Scenic Director at the EIGHTH STREET THEATRE THE CHICAGOAN 27 JPORT/ REVI EW THANKS to Captain M. M. Corpening and his Riding- Club-By-The-Sea, Yale and Prince ton polo teams will not have to ride it out down a dark alley, but, according to the captain, have been urgently invited to settle it with mallets at forty paces in the local equerry's indoor arena. News of this arrived simultane ously with the proclamation of General Mullins, affectionately known by overweight business men as Jim, that boxing bouts will be held at two weeks intervals in the Riding Club. And whether or not Yale and Princeton accept Chicago hospital ity, polo will be staged weekly for those who enjoy the sport. Teams from the Stockyards, the North Shore, and sundry points in the county, possibly excluding Cicero, will play once a week probably for the Cook County all-mythical championship. Not to be outdone, General Mul lins announces that Bud Taylor, bantamweight champion by forfeit, will be leading man in his first showing of "Pugs and Slugs." This is all to give Chicago some thing to see while awaiting the annual riding show, which will not begin until December 7. The riding show, undoubtedly the greatest since Barnum's, excepting, of course, the Rodeo (pronounced ro-day-o) and the Police Field Day, will be good, we grant, but why can't the date be moved up to November 21 — otherwise, Queen Marie, to whom everything is ded icated, will miss it. The Riding Club needs a smart publicity man ! Just think of the possibilities. Yale and Princeton in polo, Tunney or somebody else boxing, the Queen looking on from a $14,365.16 box, and just to make things exciting, Mr. Cash-and- Carry Pyle could be invited with his performing troupe. Think of the sale of facial cream and candy bars. But the mention of college polo stirs up some serious thought. It has been successful in the east, and inaugurated in the west by the Uni versity of Arizona, it has gained a foothold there, but none of the corn belt institutions seem to take to the sport, for at least, none have tried it. CHICAGO is hurt and humili ated over Northwestern's eligibility enforcement as. regards star football players. The outraged group on the Midway accuse Northwestern of heinous actions, everything but arson it seems, since Mr. Lewis has joined Mr. Thistle- thwaite's football retinue. So let them follow the lead of their sister institutions and take up the great game of Marco. Why not polo? Could anything be more inspiring than the sight of a polo squad riding down the field, column of fours at a dead gallop. Then wheeling dramatic- all}'' to a halt before the stands, waving mallets high, they could burst into a college song, possibly "Horses". We nominate Mr. C. C. Pyle for immediate membership in the Rid ing Club — the chance of a lifetime. A One Act Play Scene — Dressing Room. Place — South Bend, Ind. Time — Any night this week. (The curtain rises to show the interior of a dressing room. Looks very much like the locker room in the Y. M. C. A. Hotel. An odor of alcohol (rubbing) fills the air. A hushed little group of seventy. seven surrounded a medium sized bald headed man in the center of the stage. The medium sized bald headed man is Mr. K. Rockne. Five minutes after the play begins, a dinner bell is beaten, the sound continuing until the close of the scene). "Mr. Rockne, may I make a touchdown Saturday? "Who said that?" asks Mr. Rockne, peering around the circle. "I did" chorus of voices. "I did" echo off stage. "I did" one echo, a little late. "No Dahlman, you've had your share for a while," Mr. Rockne has discovered the boy who asked the question. "In fact, Dahlman, you're posi tively piggy." (The soft sobbing of Dahlman begins and lasts until the final cur tain. He is barely perceptible, onty discerned by the heaving of his shoulders. He is utterly crushed). "All right, Niemiec, you may speak," Rockne recognizes the owner of an upraised hand. "I'll trade some points after touchdown for two touchdowns against that bunch Saturday, Mr. Rockne," he says eagerly. "We'll see, we'll see," The coach is now smiling and walks up and down before his players, rubr bing his hands, visibly satisfied. "Let me make a " "No, I get to " Dahlman and O'Boyle glare at one another, and a second time try to get the floor. "Boys — Boys — that isn't nice. . ." Rockne stamps his foot. "Well, he's a hog," O'Boyle now has the floor "You promised him that he could make two touch downs in the Army game, and it isn't fair for him to ask for more. You know it isn't Mr. Rockne, is it?" "Now boys, you must be patient and wait your turn." "What about us?" A roar from the background. "What about us?" echo from off-stage. "Boys — BOYS ! Remember Houser." The words no more than 28 THE CHICAGOAN leave Rockne's lips than deathly quiet replaces the hubbub. "It was back in 1923," Rockne seats himself on a water bucket and continues. "It was back in '23 and we played the Army early. I had a nice boy named Houser on one of the teams, number three as I remember. I put him in the Lom bard game, but told him not to score a touchdown. I wanted that score 7 to 0. And guess wrhat the naughty boy did?" "What?" — an excited shout. "What?" — an excited echo. "Well, he ran through the Lom bard team forgetfully and was on an open field, and instead of wait ing for someone to tackle him, made a touchdown !" "What did you do to him — Terri ble — Oh. . ." Excited mumble from the group. "Well, I didn't do anything to him, boys ; I wouldn't be that mean, for, honestly, he swore he didn't mean to do it, just couldn't help himself. No, I just left him at home when I went to play the Army. But you've all been good boys, and if you're real good and get to bed early the rest of the week, I'll maybe let all of you make touchdowns Saturday. Even you Chevigny, although you took Flan agan's turn by rights in the Penn State game. No, No, he did make a touchdown against Minnesota — boys you are all even, so I think I'll let you all make a touchdown apiece Saturday " (He gets no farther, but is raised upon happy shoulders and carried around and around in a jubilant procession). CURTAIN AND it is interesting to men tion, in concluding, that Messrs. Zuppke and Rockne offer an interesting contrast as football mentors. Mr. Rockne develops all of his men into football players, Mr. Zuppke lets one out of every eleven become a good business man. This was never more clearly shown than Sunday when Mr. Grange brought his New York Yankees to town to play Sterna- man's Chicago Bulls, now under the direction of a Mr. Mohardt, formerly of Notre Dame. Mr. Grange said hello to the crowd, autographed some candy bars, and incidentally played a fine game of ordinary football. Mr. Mohardt, free from Mr. Rockne's restraining hand, slipped off tackle several times to score two touchdowns, which resulted in a 14 to 0 victory for Mr. Mohardt's team. It must be said that Mr. Grange played a nice game, gained consistently, but because of a weak line, and because of his "pooblic", as Beatrice Lillie says, waiting at their radio sets, was unable to get the start Zuppke used to provide for him. This year, Mr. Zuppke in true Ziegfield manner, has a new star for the public. This time it is Mr. "Frosty" Peters. To Mr. Rockne, it is a case of "how many stars in my crown". Mr. Zuppke enables his stars to step out in afterlife and capitalize. Mr.. Rockne just lets them go as "one of the team." PERSONALLY we admire Mr. Rockne's method. Not that we don't look forward with anticipa tion to a "Frosty Peters Almond Bar", but we feel that Mr. Rockne gives all his men more of a chance. Maybe we're wrong, probably are, but it certainly looks as though such popularity as Rockne is ac corded, "must be deserved". And it all leads up to the old argument (which we understand Mr. Zupp ke could settle), "why doesn't Illinois play Notre Dame?" We rather think the Illini are the back ward ones, for it comes on good authority that Mr. Rockne offered to play Mr. Zuppke a game this year, but Mr. Zuppke, after losing the valued services of Mr. Grange, was hesitant. We fear but one thing in our Michigan enthusiasm. Mr. Yost has been spending the summer coach ing Richard Dix's movie, "The Quarterback", and we wonder if he'll have his players striking too many poses as they run through their series of plays. THE CHICAGOAN 29 Tearfully, we must go to press without reviewing the six-day bicycle race. But wait until our next issue. —JACK SCOTT The Perfect Symphony Attendant He is always on time He never stamps his feet in time with the music He never glares at you when you happen to cough He reads the program notes at home He never takes the critics too seri ously He is a little skeptical of the com posers who are leading the "mod ern musical renaissance" He is not overawed by the genius of Richard Strauss He admits he does not understand all he hears He thoroughly enjoys the concerts. —JOHN HEINTZ Something to read on the train ... or in bed with a sore throat ... or of a rainy even ing . . . The most sparkling novel — the colorful book of travel — the informal biographv — or the more serious work — — in fact— "Books for the Sophisticate" Open Until Midnight cfe BOREAS BOOKSTO R E 109 EAST CHICAGO AVE. ;=ih SPECIAL bnaNyESPONSIVE to a widespread and insistent 88^11 demand among music lovers who cannot de li H^fxl vote a fixec* day each week to Grand Opera, "-J""-3* a pian has been devised whereby absolute and unqualified first choice of seats for all non-sub scription performances is offered with the privilege of selecting from the field the performanc'es of your choice. A special Non-Subscription Performance Season Preferred Script Book gives these advantages, with the additional one of price concessions. These books are sold at two prices — $68.50 and $34.25; their face value is $72.00 and $36.00, respec tively. The script coupons are exchangeable at face value for seats at any price for any performance not included in the Subscription Series. The tentative schedule of thirty-one performances affords an average of two and a half performances each week from which to make a choice. Performances to be given Friday and Saturday evenings, Sunday, and possibly upon Wed nesday afternoons. First choice of seat locations is assured through the fact that these tickets are honored twenty-four hours before the public sale opens. For details call at the new Subscription Office, Wabash Avenue Entrance of Auditorium Theatre (433 S. Wabash Avenue), or write or 'phone for a representative to call on you. CHICAGO CIVIC OPERA COMPANY AUDITORIUM THEATRE Wabash Avenue at Congress Street Telephone: Harrison 1242 111 = : THE DISTINCTIVE GIFT WITH A PERSONAL TOUCH DRAKE. CAMERA PORTRAITS Oic D)iakjt SliicLio DRArxE UOTQL "SOCIETY'S Of flCIAL PHOTOGRAPHER" 30 TWECI4ICAGOAN "Hi CHICAGOAN And What is Quality With an accurate knowledge of the charac ter of our readers we formulate an analytical definition of quality as applied to THE CHI CAGOAN. Quality readers are in dividuals privileged by wealth* and position or an inherent something who, because of advan tages, have cultivated tastes and desires be yond the horizon of those less gifted. The acute regard for a metropolis is cherished to the great est degree by those whom the city has favored with this wealth and position. Quality circulation is circulation among these dictatorial individuals as an exclusive body. Quality of editorial content is a result of di recting the editorial pol icies toward the tastes of these people who com prise the social and in tellectual aristocracy of Chicago. It is for the advertiser to remember that in the merchandising of quality products these person ages are a sovereign power, as their indorse ment of your wares is an influence that permeates thru the various stratas of society. Address Inquiry to JOHN K. KETTLEWELL Advertising Manager Chief Grills Murder Suspect "Pray tell us, Mr. Bandit, sir," the burly copper querried, "If you were near the scene of crime or if at home you tarried? And was the automatic that we found beside the victim discharged by you or by some twin who casually nicked 'im ? And does the fact that on the gun your name is lettered clearly, mean that the gat belongs to you, or have we reasoned queerly? Please, sir, don't think us impu dent, inquisitive nor snooty; we're forced to ask these questions in pursuance of our duty." "Git off yer foot." the bandit said. "Don't be so highfalutin'. I never seen de guy dat croaked, I never done de shootin'. Dat's all I'll say until I see me lawyer in de matter. Youse guys won't hear anudder word, so can de funny chatter. And now I gotta go be fore de gang begins to wrorry. I'll come again some Tuesday when I ain't in such a hurry." —PAUL ERNST Beauty and Utility THE large measure of beauty and utility afforded by artistic lighting fixtures, tables, flower stands, chairs and floorlamps is far out of proportion to their moderate cost. If you will call at the Crafts man Shop we will show you how happily beauty and utility are com bined in our hand wrought fixtures and metal furniture pieces. Our distinctive fixtures are hand forged in our own shops by artis ans who take pride in reproducing and creating the best of designs. MASTERS of the METAL ART 152 East Erie Street DESIGNERS AND MANUFACTURERS 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 TWECI4ICAG0AN 31 The Book Shelf Recent Fiction It's Not Done — By William C. Bullitt, written in a fragmentary manner. Very smart, indeed. An Old Man's Folly— By Floyd Dell. Angel — By Du Bose Heyward, the author of Porgy, which means a great deal. Labels — By A. Hamilton Gibbs. Another war-and-its-effects story. Nigger Heaven — By Carl Van Vechten. Having completed all forms of abnormal psychology among the whites Abraham Lincoln — By Carl Sandburg, which justifies all the praise it has received. Worth Resurrecting Silberman — By Jacques de Lacretelle. A piercing tale which we heartily recommend. New Poetry — By Harriet Mon roe. The best anthology of new verse, without exception. Tristram Shandy, Gentleman — Laurence Sterne. A delightful piece of work smacking of the past century. Maria Chapdelaine — By Louis Hemon. If there is still anyone who has not read this book, we suggest that he do so at once. Ethan Frome— By Edith Whar ton who never has been able to do anything so well since. Winesburg, Ohio — By Sherwood Anderson. A very superior group of short stories. Books Received Manifest Destiny — By Arthur D. Howden-Smith. A Man Could Stand Up— By Ford Madox Ford. With Eastern Eyes — By Ernest Poole. The Chariot of Fire — By Ber nard de Voto. Custody Children — By Everett Young. • *: / • • : Bags Novelties Smoking Accessories Costume Jewelry PARIS- CHEZ -VOUS IMPORTER— COMMISSIONER HELEN HAFFENBERG in EAST CHICAGO AVENUE : • ^EW CPEATO^OFIME 6»W.WA^M0fcl<D|Tr<a>&i *§TT- R W* 1 HAND DECORATED WASTE BASKETS 8QOK ENDS ETC SOLO AT CHICAGO'S EXCLUSIVE 0 1 FT SHOPS INCLU OINO MARSHALL FIELD &CO. - CARSON PlRIE SCOTf and CO. THE oraEKT SHOPS LTD,- THE EDGEWATER B.H.GIFT SHOP. TWE CHICAGOAN A: _T $2.995 — tne nrst 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 with soft finish wool , it is mounted on the economical, wear-resisting Series 80 chas sis which means 14 to 17 miles per gallon of gasoline, 15,000 to 18,000 miles from tires, and years of dependable 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 CORPOR AT I O N Telephone Calumet 5960 CHICAGO Series go Cjpive-cPassenger -» « Two-T)oor (Custom-built COACH $2995 Other coach models with four doors, $3250 to $345? All prices at Buffalo — Plus tax |V^5SSS3^^N^*JS^^^*g 1 MARMON announces the new series (seventy -five) with custom built i*ilfo*faGli^mtiiif>*timt ... . _ % arms of Marmont family of France, from tchich JL -> Dodies in the advanced mode + Marmon now presents its proudest achievement in twenty-five years of fine car building -r many ingen ious new refinements have developed -the already famous Marmon name is derived Marmon motor and chassis td newer heights of smooth and quiet operation 4- among the wide variety of distinguished body styles you will find the one exactly suited to your needs and tastes -r new pleasures are in store -r new experiences await you -K* -K" +"¦* -i* + also complete line of i standard vars, $3195 -an-d- upward, f.o.^b. factory