? ¦M SPONSORED BY HA R. GRAFT FROM England come Ben Wade pipes . . . different from all others. From the first day on they are sweet, mellow, "broken- in." Breaking-in an ordinary pipe means smoking out the varnish, the stain, the metallic coating inside the bowl. The Ben Wade inside bowl is unstained . . . the briar itself is pumiced and polished by the Ben Wade patented process. The pores of the wood are opened and kept open for per fect absorption! Precious moments of per fect pipe smoking are slipping by . . . don't wait longer. Ask your best tobacconist for Ben Wade pipes. If he can't respond to your demand write for the catalog of all shapes in actual sizes. This sign identifies all War graft dealers The Chicagoan — Martin J. Quigley, Publisher; published fortnightly by Oakdale Publishing Co., 407 South Dearborn St., Chicago, 111. New York Office: 565 Fifth Ave. Los Angeles Office: 5617 Hollywood Blvd. Subscription $3.00 annually, single copies 15c. Vol. III. Xo. 9 Tuly 16, 1927. Entered as second-class matter at the Post Office at Chicago, III., under the Act of March 3, 1879. TUECUICAGOAN i ®®@@®®@(2j| YOUR MONEY'S WORTH By Stuart Chase and C. J. Schlink A Study In The Waste Of TIhe Consumer's Dollar Have You Ever Spent a Dollar? If You Have, You Will Find Something of Interest in This Book * THROUGH advertising, modern business has built up a Wonderland of conflicting claims, bright promises, fancy packages, soaring words and magnificent ignorance. We con sumers wander through that Wonderland buying certain things in order that we may live and be comfortable; other things to keep up with the Joneses — or happily to surpass the Joneses, but are we getting what we pay for? $ $ IF you knew for instance, Madam, that that little fat'reducing compound for which you paid from one to five dollars was absolutely devoid of all the marvelous qualities bestowed upon it by slick advertisements, and was worth in actual money but a few cents . . . and that you paid a fancy price for a sable which was but rabbit/fur in masquerade . . . and that that charming piece of "Irish" lace was really not manufactured in Ireland, but in China. ... If you knew for instance, Madam, that a widely advertised product was not a deodorant, but merely "covered one odor with another" and that for two cents you could buy an antiseptic, the action of which would be equal to $495.00 worth of the above mentioned preparation ... if you knew that your $3.50 jar of beauty clay had about the value of 2c worth of dry mud . . . you certainly would stir up a dust, now wouldn't you? And you, Monsieur, what do you know of the actual value of that razor, that automobile tire, shaving cream, soap, gasoline, spot'remover; etc., for which you are paying such fantastic prices? Ah, how you will be astounded when you have read Chase » Schlink's book, YOUR MONEY'S WORTH. You really must read this book. It is more fascinating than romance, and readable as your newspaper. Every page bristles with facts, startling ex posures, and all — authoritative. Order your copy today. Price $2.00. *THE BOOK OF THE MONTH CLUB'S SELECTION FOR JULY assess^ 2 TUECUICAGOAN OCCASIONS CIRCUS — Peanuts and balloons, gymnasts and baboons, not in a vainly de-Chicago- ised Coliseum but in a genuine big top spread all over Grant Park's ample acres, Ringling Bros, and Barnum 6? Bailey com' plete in every detail except the parade — daily and nightly until July 25. VACATION — Probable explanation of city calendar's lack of items for this space. THE STAGE* Words and Music GEORGE WHITE'S SCANDALS— Er- langer, 127 N. Clark, State 2162. Agile Ann Pennington, the brazen brothers Howard, Tom Patricola, Harry Richman, Frances Williams and the nimble George White himself, flanked (military term) by some 75 earnest young women in Jim suits. Curtain 8:15. Mat. Wed., Sat. GAT PAREE— Four Cohans, 119 N. Clark, Central 4937. The liberal Sophie Tucker, the anachronistic Chic Sale, the gals, gags and gusto of the surefire Shu- bert Revue. Curtain 8:15. Mat. Wed., Sat. THE MADCAP— Olympic, 74 W. Madi son, Central 8240. Mitzi as Mitzi in- delibly is in melodic merriment concern' ing nothing so important as Mitzi. Cur tain 8:15. Mat. Sat. Just Words THE WILD WESCOTTS— Cort, 132 N. Dearborn, Central 0019. One of those all-in-the-f amily things, with angles in' teresting enough to keep your mind off the heat and tomorrow. Curtain 8:30. Mat. Wed., Sat. THE BARKER— Blackstone, 60 East 7th, Harrison 6609. Richard Bennett and a lot of other performers impersonating per formers in a most convincing maaner. Curtain 8:25. Nightly except Monday. Mat. Wed., Sat. *All listed attractions subject to discontinw ance if Mr. Cox doesn't ta\e the heat wave in hand. For Tickets* F. COUTHOUI, INC, 54 W. Randolph. Branches at Congress, Drake, Blackstone, La Salle, Sherman, Morrison, Stevens and Seneca Hotels, Hamilton, Chicago Ath letic, Illinois Athletic, Union League, University and Standard Clubs; Mandel Bros. State 7171. H. H. WATERFALL, Palmer House, Auditorium, Bismarck. Randolph 3486. J. HORWITZ, 141 N. Clark. Dearborn 3800. UHITED, 89 W. Randolph. Randolph 0262. TTSON. 72 W. Randolph. Randolph 0021. *A (legal) service charge of $.50 per tic\et may be made by agencies. CINEMA Downtown CHICAGO — State at Lake — Lost at the Front, another of those things, July 18-24; The Prince of Headwaiters, otherwise _ Adolphe Menjou, July 25-31. Continu ous with stage interruptions. ROOSEVELT— 110 N. State— The Cov ered Wagon, most epic of the epics, July 18-24; Camille, a new one with Norma Talmadge, July 25-31. Continuous. McVICKERS— 25 W. Madison— Beau Geste, completing a run of three weeks on July 24 to be followed by The Big Parade, which you'll have no alibi for having missed if you don't see it this time. Continuous. North UPTOWN — Broadway at Lawrence — Roo\ies, Karl Dane and George K. Ar thur in ludicrous training camp episodes, July 18-24; Tillie the Toiler, Marion Davies kidding a comic strip, July 25-31. Jazz bands and things with these! SHERIDAN— Irving Park at Sheridan Road — Dance Magic, about that kind of a picture, July 18-24. Verne Buck and band for relief. South TIVOLI— 6325 Cottage Grove— The World at Her Feet, Florence Vidor at her prac tically perfect best, July 18-24; Lost at the Front, mentioned above, July 25*31. Acts and things, too. CAPITOL— 7941 S. Halsted— Naughty But Nice, that's Colleen Moore, July 18-24; The Night of Love, injunctioned past the censor and worth the effort, July 25-31. Bands, acts, Vitaphones, etc., additional. PICCADILLY — Hyde Park at Blackstone — Rolled Stoc\ings, not like that and a good little school yarn, July 18-20; Rough House Rosie, Clara Bow missing on one, July 21-24; Manpower, Dix again, July 25-27. With presentations. West SENATE— Madison at Kedzie — Roo\ies, noted above, July 18-24; Tillie the Toiler, ditto, July 25-31. Usual trimmings. HARDING— 2724 Milwaukee Ave., Man power, Richard Dix rescues a dam, July 18-24; Rookies, in case you missed it else where, July 25-31. Plus footlighted dance music. TABLES Downtown LA SALLE ROOF— La Salle at Madison — with Jack Chapman's orchestra. Cou- vert $.50 until 9, then $1. STEVEHS — 730 S. Michigan— main din ing room, Stevens Hotel Orchestra, Armin F. Hand directing, Roy Bargy at the piano. Dinner $3, luncheon couvert $.50. Open until 1:00. Dress well. COHGRESS — Michigan at Congress — Pompeian Room, 6:30 to 8:30; then 10:30 to 2:00. Balloon Room at $2 TUEO4ICAG0AN 3 IN AND ABOUT THE CITY couvert; until 3:00 at $3 Saturdays. COLLEGE INN— Sherman Hotel, Clark at Randolph — Maurie Sherman and orches tra, until 9:00 except Saturday, then 1:00. RAHDOLPH ROOM — Bismarck Hotel, 171 W. Randolph — Benson's Trouba dours. Couvert $.50 after 8:15 ($1 Saturday). Open until 1:00. Excellent eating. PALMER HOUSE— State at Monroe- Victorian Room, Victorian Room orches tra, dancing with dinner. No couvert. Empire Room, concert by Petite Sym phony orchestra, no couvert. Stately as its name. HENRICI'S— 71 W. Randolph— the place that advertises "no orchestral din." Out a Ways MARINE DIHIHG ROOM — Edgewater Beach Hotel — Where one always feels cor rect. Fine entertainment and good dance music. Marble dance floor, outdoors, es pecially worthwhile. SALLYS — 4650 Sheridan Road— Where you can get a good breakfast just before you go to bed — no matter how late or how early. RAIHBO GARDENS— Clark at Lawrence. The "Million Dollar play place." Open air room now available. "Spanish Rain- bo,''' floor show, colorful, musical. Plenty of room and plenty of people. Couvert, after 8:00, $.75. VANITY FAIR— Grace and Broadway. One of those "cozy" spots. Clever floor show. Rose lights, jazz music, prize dances. CHEZ PIERRE — "Around the corner from everywhere." 247 E. Ontario. Can't miss the red arrow. Pierre Nuyton an admirable host and artist. Atmospheric — almost bohemian. THE SAMOVAR— 624 S. Michigan- good food, dancing and a show, in good company. CIROS — 18 W. Walton — competent menu and nice people. COLOSIMO'S — 2126 S. Wabash — Italian and traditional, and not at all exciting. PLANTATION— 35th at South Parkway — the place to go if the party wants to "see one of those places" and you want to give the party a break. ALAMO — Wilson near Clarendon. Where the floor reflects the dancing feet and the boys choose ringside seats. Plenty of amusement. Always crowded. MIDNIGHT FROLICS— 22nd off Wabash —Where the Butter 'n Egg (no not yegg) men love to watch the dance revue — and there is plenty to see. An all night place. 'Way Out THE DELLS — Dempster near Waukegan — Ye Olde Time Roadhouse. Plenty of outdoor atmosphere. GARDEN OF ALLAH— Farther out on Waukegan — no, no harem, but a floor show equal to a downtown revue. Plenty of broiled chicken. LINCOLN TAVERN — Same route— same entertainment — only more so. HILLSIDE INN — On Roosevelt Road — a place you might drive past, but will find amusing if you stop. ART ART DESTITUTE — Annual exhibition, Architectural League. Lithographs and etchings by Odilon Redon. Wood en gravings, etchings. ACKERMAN'S — Etchings and drypoints by Edmund Blamphied. NEW ARLIMUSC, 1501 N. La Salle. Between seasons exhibition of paintings, drawings and sculpture of Chicago mod erns. Open evenings. FIELD MUSEUM — Antique sculpture, painting, historical models. ITALIAN SHOP— Interior decoration and Spanish pottery. Italian handiwork. NEWBERRT LIBRART — Books and prints indicating period costuming. ROULLIER GALLERIES — Durer to McBey in prints. STROLLS MORNING — To the lake front, any place. AFTERHOOK — To an air-cooled movie, any one. EVENING — To another, any other. LATER — But you've got your own ideas. NUMBERS* ALCOHOL— Wood Products Co., Lafay ette 6360. ANALYSIS — Brewers and Distillers Labora tory, Buckingham 1310. AMBULANCE— George Hoppe, ^"Private Appearing Sedan Ambulances," Buck ingham 6681. *From July edition, Donnelley' s "The Red Boo\." TOPICS Information Pa§e 2 Surveys ' Madison Street |j Comebacks Business Chance ° Joe • ' Gene Markey x" Adventure by Coupon 1 1 Overtones Yes, It's Paris 13 Record j* Chicago }' Oak Street Beach lo Amy Leslie 1 ' Milwaukee • *° Sweet Adeline 19 Road Map II....! 20 Strike 21 Baedeker 22 Jail 23 Oral Shorthand 24 Polo 25 The Gay 90's 26 Stage 27 Music 2^ Cinema 2^ Books 30 Mail 31 4 TUECUICAGOAN "law 320 MICHIGAN AVENUE « NORTH Just South of the Bridge Gowns and Wraps /or the Discriminating Mis Ready to be worn or made to your measure * ^ r^ Significance WEEK-END in Chatham Fields, a not merely conservative but almost obtrusively reserved sector not yet quite decided to batter down the flaming brick and mortar gates that a trifle determinedly wall off noisy Cot' tage Grove avenue on the east, is variously and not a little surprisingly rewarded. Too new for fame, yet old enough to embrace the residence of a cousin whom the neighbors delight in whispering watches Lindy's career with proper interest yet communicates with him not at all, this area developed by the hardy pioneers of 1923 approximates the small town ideal in all but density of population. A window illuminated after ten o'clock at night means com' pany, even on Saturday. On Sunday night the lights are bright a little longer, flaming into brilliance as the residents return from church and snuffing out in unison as if at a given signal. On Sunday afternoon the boys and girls go walking. Two days in this atmosphere restore something seemingly vital to the dweller in less competently isolated neighborhoods. He learns again to loll, to stroll, to remark the poppies that peep over an impeccable lattice backing a close'cropped green bounded other' wise by mathematically correct hedges. He wonders if the suspendered citizen precariously inspecting the aerial strung between sturdy masts atop house and garage is owner of the Lin' coin lazily abandoned on the ramp and whether he hasn't a pretty satisfactory grip upon human essentials. He won ders — And then the host, suddenly a bustling tradesman shouting that break' fast may be had more expediently downtown and it's a splendid morning to walk to the I. C, reminds that the brick and mortar gates are but symbols, that beyond lies Cottage Grove and commerce. Out of bed then, a shower, S U RVE YS The Sign Language Columists Chicago Lore Madison Street The Police Perspective Parking Privileges The First Inhabitant DeLuxe Toggery The 5th Marines Unnatural Phenomena Miscellany a parting word to the hostess and a reluctant gallop alongside a distinctly office man to the car line with its highly visible freight of strictly repre sentative toilers and across the street between trucks and the headlong Hud- sons of sedate union plasterers. But what's this? Ah — It's Huston's Pharmacy, Eighty- second street at Cottage Grove, and the gold leaf lettering in the lower right hand corner of the window reads : WE ARE PRESCRIPTION "EXPERTS" But the host is impatient. No, he does not know whether it is significant. Yes, it may be merely additional proof of the theorem that sign-painters should adhere strictly to painting. No, he hasn't heard a whisper. If we tarry to investigate we will miss the 8:02. And it isn't in Chatham Fields. I Appreciation T may be true that every life con tains a story. Brought up to date, the axiom might be stretched to imply that every brain harbors translable freight adequate to the production of a news paper "colyumn." The record shows that one in perhaps a million is capable of imparting to newsprint, day after day and with semblance of gaiety, the requisite quota of humor, philosophy and ponderable opinion. We who read them label that one clown. His is a solo part in the printed ensemble. Does he flat a lofty hold, the concert collapses in discord. Does he sound a keynote summoning the straggling choir to attunement, the pa per was good that day. Bouquets for a buffoonery, forbearance for a heart beat, these are his symbols of accept ance. Then death and a sudden reverence. We rewrite our label, belatedly be tokening an appreciation unsuspected until now save by the silenced one, and demonstrate a delayed decency in a notice on an inside page. We make restitution by stoning the suc cessor. Credo IT is not that we have forgotten Mr. George Jean Nathan's American Credo which has been brought recent ly up to date by College Humor, but it occurs to us that there are certain conceptions and beliefs which relate exclusively to Chicago. In the first place there has circu lated through the avenues and boule vards of this city a general precept that every home in Cicero boasts as an integral part of its household equipment such unpleasant articles as hand grenades, bombs, T. N. T., acid- tossefs and claymores. There are also many loyal Chica- goans who give credence to the faith 6 TUECUICAGOAN that the veteran football coach, Mr. A. A. Stagg, prefers a squad of perfect gentlemen to a conference winning eleven whose ability to tackle, ham string, stiff-arm and blocade is over shadowed by an irreconcilability with split infinitives and manicures. An idle boast. Certainly there has settled upon the shoulders of the town a formidable dogma that the geologic composition of Chicago soil precludes the possibil ity of a subway. An assertion which, according to many shrewd men, is not without its points. The doctrine which deals with the intelligence of the near-north side crowd has never been disputed. To say nothing of the positive belief that there are more flowers at a gangster's funeral than have ever been gathered for the last rites of anyone else. The conception that the object of the Board of Trade is to deceive, plunder and ruin the farmers of Illi nois is not without its followers. And there are those who insist that only beautiful buildings are lighted at night. Surely the feeling that no Chi- cagoan has ever seen the stock yards has reached the proportions and dig nity of a papal bull. Who has ever heard anybody in Chicago discredit the statement that Mary Garden can act but she can't sing? A fine blanket-criticism for those who feel that Miss Garden is not all she should be. An excellent subject for a group of young Sophists. And there is also one sweeping, all- embracing doctrine which is respected throughout every prairie, valley and sea-coast in the country — a common enough belief which Mr. Nathan might have included in his list — that icemen without exception are a per nicious and constant menace to the peace of mind of all jealous husbands. The Bible, the Zend-Avesta, the Torah and the Koran might be ques tioned by the skeptical few; but the myth about the perduring virility of icemen goes on forever, unquestioned, undisputed, sure as death. A rare admission on the part of mankind. T >cene HE Boulevard parallel to the lake and to the east has its place in the sun. Madison street, west, through a loop increasingly dowdy as the blue lake air is left behind is already shabby at Dearborn, fugitive and restless at Clark, and hungry at the river. Yet Madison is a gay street in its way. Its people are a gay people. Here is the elemental city, rapacious, fraudulent, fascinating — the more visi bly so, seen through the microscope of poverty. Its windows are bright with all the timeless gulls of city mer chandising; cheap travelling goods, bogus jewelry, confections, cutlery, tinsel, toys, shoddy. Every bauble here had its counterpart in the stalls of Carthage. These even are the same merchants, half cynic, half zealot be fore their open doors. Men are stoically shaved here by a corps of amateur barbers. Next a stationer's den where you may buy pamphlets on mesmerism, parlor magic, and sun cults — all under the tolerant blessing of a Mogen David. A drug store, scientific high-temple to the undying Astarte, with the old, robustious advice of the flesh. A pawn shop, its windows brave in the instruments of music and murder — twin sentimentalities from time out of mind the delights of mankind. A jewelry auction where packed, shabby men stare at the bright counters, and sly ones propose joint coups as this or that trinket goes on the block. Open air dentistry with its volun teer victims being mildly applauded by a wary huddle of spectators at a safe distance from the throne where the immolated one sits gingerly and in awful splendor as a high'regent looks to his shining instruments. Pause here for a little. The boule vard will always wait; it has no pano rama like this to offer. T Viewpoint HE police undoubtedly find curi' osity as troublesome as crime. A place that was once only a drug store, or a rooming house, or a bank be* comes a magnet attracting many pec pie as soon as it has been the scene of a fire, an accident or a burglary. Long after the excitement has ended a policeman must still be on duty 'with a "Keep moving, there! Step lively, you!" Not very amusing for any officer; but surely there was never one more dissatisfied with his job than the patrolman who still found the curious crowds big and unruly more than a week after the collapse of a north side building, which toppled into the ex' cavation on the next lot. It was one of those miraculous wrecks which make a wonderful show without any loss of life or serious injury. Even after a week's work of clearing away debris there were enough torn tim' bers, fragments of roofing, twisted bedsteads, coal scuttles and other wreckage apparent to make sight' seers gasp. But it was old stuff to the policeman. "Get on there," he shouted. "Did you never see trash before?" Nobody paid any attention. "Keep moving," he ordered. "What's there to look at, anyhow? You've all seen bricks and pipes and junk before. Get along with your* Slowly the crowd shuffled forward. "What do you want to hang around for?" demanded the officer. "Sure, there's nothing to be seen. Not even any dead bodies to be re moved." TWECMICAGOAN 7 T< Devices WO stories about automobile thieves have come to us recently. The first begins with the hero leav ing a friend's house confidently ex pecting to find his car in front of the door where he had thoughtfully parked it. The car was not there or across the street or anywhere else on the block. The owner was annoyed but not shocked. Being a thorough cosmopolite he knew instantly that the car had been stolen. Since he was also resourceful, he hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take him to the nearest police sta tion. On the way he saw something that caused him to stop the cab and get out without offering to pay his fare. At the curb stood his delin quent car stubbornly resisting the ef forts of two boys to make it run. The owner had a few words with the boys after which he tucked them in and gave a demonstration of correct driv ing. Thus he proceeded to the police station. The second story has to do with a man who came upon his car just when two men and a tow truck were on the point of hauling it away. "What's the idea?" he asked po litely. "Order from the garage to bring in a stalled car," said one of the me chanics. "There must be some mistake," said the owner. "Nothing's wrong with my car." The mechanics permitted him to unlock it and start the motor. They acknowledged that it was a good car in good condition. "Now," proposed the owner, "sup pose one of you boys get in here with me and we'll go to your garage and straighten out this mistake." The larger of the two mechanics accepted the proposition and gave di rections for finding the garage. "Right down this alley," he said. And then, "Stop here." The owner of the car saw no gar age, but he did see a gun clasped af fectionately in the hand of the me chanic. "Now I'll look after the car," said the latter. "You can get out here." He did. Exploration OOME twenty-five years ago local aesthetes were touched .at the plaint of a singing coal miner who bellowed about the sorrows of one condemned to labor "down in a coal mine (tauto- logically), underneath the ground." Happily such ditties are gone out of fashion. The modern coal miner seems to while away remarkably little time in underground toil. Then, very recently, the Floyd Collins tragedy claimed its stint of tears. Happily, too, published laments over his fate have been forgotten. But what with lacrimose songs and obituary odes of one sort or another cave life is still somewhat lacking in popular esteem. It has hitherto been regarded as a sad business, a conception on the whole cruelly unfair to caverns, which are not so uniformly morbid as sung and declaimed. Now there is considerable subter ranean life in Chicago. Wacker Drive, on its lower levels, achieves a cavern weird enough, almost, to merit songful notice. All along the river Wackers' two lower levels are vast grottoes inhabited by parked automo biles nosed against the curbing like eyeless cave fish. Predatory trucks go whooping and volleying through fan tastic aisles of mushroom-like pillars, each stalactite seemingly alive and glaring with a flat, round electric eye in its head. A stale, dusty odor dif fuses from boarded up entrances of what were once waterfront stores. Barred grates admit a little light from an occasional street above, and whole designs of sidewalk lenses gleam over head as curiously lacklustre stars. Ordinary men are somewhat subdued by this artificial cave, a little impressed by it. Not so the race of truck driv ers which flourishes and fulminates underground with immense gusto. Laughter echoes and re-echoes among the vaults and so out to the river and up into the free air. Consequently Chicago's cavern is a cheerful place. By following the river the explorer comes to the lower level of the Link bridge, crosses it beneath the rumble of traffic above, and so wins to sud den daylight by emerging on the east side of the north bridge head. Directly below is the site of Chi cago's first black belt. This early black belt was Monsieur Jean Baptiste Point de Sable, the first non-Indian to live on the river bank, and hence the city's first inhabitant. Monsieur was a Haytian negro. It would doubtless astound the gentleman were he to see the caves that echo where once his smoke drifted. It would astound him more to find that Chicago lads, as Marines, now keep the peace, or as propagandists have it, safeguard civili zation, on the isle from which Mon sieur left to begin his adventures in the wilderness. Question VIVID green coat split emphat ically to the shoulder blades and adorned with pearl buttons clustered on the solar plexus is an object worth seeing. When part of a suit, the lower half of which resembles a cari cature of collegiate trousers, it is even more striking. And when combined with a rakish derby designed to rest on the very low bridge of the wearer's nose the ensemble is breath-taking, ecstatic, incomparable. Now we have seen just such gar ments obviously for sale in Chicago haberdasheries, the obscure but sel dom diffident place specializing a trade for swell gents. But where are the gents who wear these clothes? We do not know. And, though we have stood for hours before a window fea turing a glass buzzer on full blast to attract buyers for just suc^ clothing, we have never seen a single classy garment bought. 8 TWCCNICACOAN Opportunity IT was cold on the boulevard, and damp. The wind that ruffled up from the riyer was a chill, wet lake wind, the more so now that the sun had been walled away behind Wacker Drive. Just at the bridge he eased up to us. We caught the words: "Buddy . . . hungry . . . dime f'r a cuppa coffee . . . honest tuh God." If our quar ter wrecked the charities and their system of relief, then we plead guilty. He looked hungry. He looked cold. We lingered a while. Having received our bounty he felt obliged to tell us his story. Between swirls from the river it came: "Mother dyin' . . . broke . . . leav ing' t'night . . . Peoria . . . sure saved my life . . . thanks . . . tough break for a man . . . thanks." Well, our quarter was gone anyway. There was only one more question. "Buddy," we asked, "weren't you in the 5th Marines?" He was. Didn't he pawn his medal? He did. And his em ployer wouldn't take him back? His employer wouldn't. He stood for an instant, and with that abrupt severing of human con tact which marks all parting in the city was gone, leaving the boulevards empty of significant life. Across the span we reflected mournfully that the war had been over for nearly a dec ade; employers must be a remarkably obdurate race. All of this brings us to another in cident of the same kind. A friend of ours, a philanthropic physician, was with us on the occasion of a similar touch. This time the ex-Marine told his story first. "Hell," roared the doctor. "Do you call that panhan dling? Expect anybody to believe that? Watch me and I'll show you how to do it!" The physician strode a few paces in front of us and began his version. A block down. the street he waited for us. "Now listen," he bellowed above the traffic "walk up to a man. Tell him you're hungry. Look him in the eye. Ask him for a quarter — not a measley dime. And don't pull that old fairy tale about the Marines and your mother. You're a hell of a hobo. Ought to be ashamed of yourself. Here's what I earned in that block." It was something over two dollars in silver. And finally we venture a sugges tion: Cannot some competent writing person work out an effective approach for panhandlers? Perhaps it might be syndicated on a percentage basis. Stranger things have been done. Cer tainly fine writing has been often enough achieved for less worthy pur poses. Phenomena p . 1 ISA'S secret has been discovered. And a Chicagoan did it. Not with the micrometer caliper or the sextant of the engineer or surveyor, but by application of that scientific principle evolved by the ingenious Duroc in persuading the Stock Yards fence to scratch her back for her. We saw the bipedal researcher busy in his open-air laboratory at Van Buren and Wells streets, and his ma teria scientifica consisted solely of one shoulder, one signpost and one look of supreme contentment. There was nothing astounding in the fact that he was leaning against • the post. That fact has been achieved by many an individual of no scientific bent whatsoever; in fact, in this post- Volsteadian era that same direction- giver has been the sole visible means — or shall we say sign? — of support of more than one. No, the scientific accomplishment is apparent rather in the fact that the post also was leaning upon him — tranquilly, complacently. There was a union of soul and ambition that passed all understanding, until we be gan to query ourselves: How long did the sidewalk scientist have to lean against the post to overcome the cold and ironic indifference of the latter, and how much longer was it until the sign post felt the first stirrings of true camaraderie and reciprocated? Which brings us back to the Tower of Pisa. Perhaps on some pied page of history there was a story of a weaver of street songs who sought solace and strength in the propinquity of the forbidding giant of stone. And Pisa unbent and bent. Risk 1 NOW that the air is full of agita tion, injunctions and such directed against our big Rabbit and Whippet men, we rise to remark that gambling is inherent in the human race and that it for the time being finds expression in the cotton-packed toed greyhounds. We were in the bygone days a patron for lunch of an eating house which boasted (a figure of speech only — none of the employes ever mentioned them to me) a black and white squared tile floor, a lunch counter and "tables for ladies." We're no lady, but nevertheless we sat at a table, being, even in those days, violent on the sex equality question. At the counter sat two men. Not particu larly impressive men, but their actions intrigued us. They were exchanging coins and the gambling fervor shown in their eyes. We looked furtively for a deck of cards or a pair of dice but there were none. Their eyes were fixed intently on the black and white squares. Shifting our chair noiselessly our eyes joined theirs at the focal point. An insect (now van ished forever from the American res taurant, even as the buffalo from the plains) jumped listlessly from the black to white squares and as he did so the gentlemen at the counter ex changed coins. THE CUICAGOAN o H R ecords IOW there have been circulated about the gentleman atop the Morris on Hotel flagpole enough stories to fill another DeCameron. In the first place we admit an un- openable lock on that portion of the heart dedicated to the appreciation of people who go over Niagara Falls in barrels and those who spend fort nights on top of six hundred foot flag poles. A brave enough action on the part of the performer but a deed which can result in no great and com mon good. That gentleman, one Joe Powers, who might have some reason in his mind for this dizzy act, has reminded us of the anchorite in Thais who sat on top of a mountain peak, much to the praise and wonder of the customers, to avoid the temptations of the lady who bears the name of the story. A futile precaution. For if you remem ber the story, the anchorite changed a few views regarding life and finally visited the lovely Thais just before she died. An ironic twist and a hollow resolution. We do not feel, however, that the gentleman on the Morrison Hotel is trying to avoid another Thais. Pos sibly he is, although he does not look like an anchorite. But what is more probable is that he will land finally on the vaudeville stage, where people will pay heavy tariffs to watch him do a dance. And in all sincerity we trust that after his senseless if valiant dem onstration he will not get stage fright and fear to face the yelling mob. It would be about as fateful as to have Mr. Charles Lindbergh become dizzy and fall out of bed. Ambitions O PEAKING of long distance records for one thing and another recalls to mind the man who went in for the long-time low-altitude sitting contest. That not'tO'be'Outdone individual found himself some fresh concrete and told all interested lookers-on that he was establishing a record, as stated above, for low-altitude sitting. Officers arrived and insisted on his moving along. But the concrete was wet and he had stuck to it, The Chi cago police, men of strong minds and arms, removed him perforce from the asphalt, leaving the major portion~of his trousers behind him, and taking the man — what was left of his carcass — to the nearest police station. T Respite HESE are the dog days for the tired business man. Most of the legiti mate theatres showing girl shows es pecially for his amusement are too warm for comfort, and ventilation is so efficient in the movies as to suggest pneumonia. As a good reason for get ting away from the desk one day, here is a suggestion: Leave Chicago by ' auto about 9 o'clock in the morning, driving straight up Sheridan Road to Milwau kee. The ninety-eight miles take about three hours and a half of fairlv leisurely riding, allowing plenty of time to crawl through Zion City. If Milwaukee is hot (and it usually is in July) go right through to Me nominee Falls. You should reach The Eagle, the town's famous eating house, just about the time "lunch" is ready. And what a lunch. Everything is served in best boarding house style, and in such quantities that serious doubt might be entertained as to the commercial acumen of the proprietor. Allow two hours for it. Come back even more leisurely. Racine offers an exceptionally nice ho tel for a stretch and refreshments. Toward evening, as you approach Chi cago, traffic becomes more tedious. There are a half a dozen "steak or chicken"road houses well worth pat ronizing. Early evening. Two hun dred and thirty miles of driving on paved roads in back of you. Business forgotten for a day. The different, quite, without packing. a Publicity NCE there were the stocks and the ducking stool. Now there is the billboard. Out on Sheridan Road stands a large sign bearing this de nunciation: "The early extension of this road is prevented by injunction filed by Mrs. So and So and Mr. What's His Name." As We See It— W, ITH school buildings reaching the proportions of Michigan Boule vard towers, it is now possible for tardy students to evolve excuses which never before would have been ac cepted even by the most absent- minded professor. The obvious case in mind is the new Northwestern University building on Chicago Avenue and Fairbanks Court. "Well, it was this way, perfesser . . . the elevator got stuck on the twentieth floor." —THE EDITORS. i, .„.^';i..;<iiivk7.v 10 TME CHICAGOAN I F I MAY /AY IO These Chicagoans Do Get About New York, July 14. IN ambling about this mad capital one encounters many natives of Chi cago, as well as an infinite variety of expatriate Chicagoans. Not long ago I was walking up that thoroughfare to which the late Henry James was wont to refer as "the Fifth Avenue," in com pany with Charles Collins, one of Chi cago's most renowned writers of fic tion, when we met Joseph Medill Pat terson, who used to guide the destinies of The Chicago Tribune before he came here to keep an eye on his Liberty mag azine. "I'm glad to see you, Charley," said Captain Patterson, wringing the au thor's hand, with an admiring glance at his sartorial elegance. "You look just like a New Yorker." Now these words might have fallen as a compli ment on the ears of many a Chicagoan. Not so Mr. Collins. "I'm sorry, Joe," replied that gentleman sadly, and fordv with removed his colored hatband. Recently a number of the local gen try held a contest to determine by bal lot (and all in a spirit of fun, if I may say so) who the most famous Chicagoan might be. Several votes were cast for the Vice-President of the United States, Mr. Dawes, but on a technicality he was ruled out, it being alleged that he resides in Evanston. There were those, too, who favored Mr. Clarence Dar- row, but after much wrangling the honor of being the most famous Chi cagoan was conceded to Mrs. Frederic McLaughlin, whom Europe, Asia, Africa, South America and the United States, including insular possessions, re members as Irene Castle. The other day as I approached the Hotel Algonquin, that celebrated carav ansary where all the well-knowns as semble for luncheon, I beheld Mrs. McLaughlin alighting from a taxicab, practically unobserved save for a crowd of admiring citizens and three or four camera-men. Mrs. McLaughlin's brief and infrequent sojourns in New York are never consummated without the clicking of cameras, and the appearance of her decorative photographs in the public prints, for no matter how unob trusively she may enter the gates of the city, her arrival is heralded from the housetops. That is one of the minor penalties of being the most famous Chicagoan. AND speaking of the Algonquin (I believe I was speaking of the Al gonquin), that hostelry remains one of the eight wonders of the world. Those who know their way about the capitals of Europe realize that its equal as a place of interest does not exist any where abroad. Never in their palmiest days did the Cafe Royal of London, nor the T^ouvelle Athene of George Moore's Paris, offer to the casual by stander such an amazing array of names and faces. Mr. Frank Case, the genial host of the Algonquin, presents, if I may say so, a better show than P. T. Barnum ever advertised. For example, in the Rose Room on a pleasant day last week I saw at luncheon almost everyone in New York, with the ex ception of Mayor James Walker — and I am certain that hizzoner's absence may be accounted for by the fact that he seldom indulges in luncheon. Out side the velvet ropes at the door H. L. Mencken and his attendant acolyte, George Jean Nathan, were waiting until Georges (that most diplomatic of maitres oVhoteX) could conjure up a table for them. Within, Zoe Akins, the play-writer, was lunching with Ethel Barrymore, who looks more radi ant than ever, and who, in her suc cessful comedy, The Constant Wife, will be a Christmas present to Chicago. The lovely Ina Claire sat across from the benign spectacles of Winchell Smith, who, with Michael Arlen, has written a new play for her. Then there was Dolores Costello, of the movies, and Warner Oland and a covey of lesser lights of the celluloid industry. A nearby table was presided over by Mr. Jack Dempsey, a fellow reputed to possess a definite talent at fisticuffs. With him were several gendemen of grave mien — and not a cauliflower ear among them. Joseph Hergesheimer was discovered, in company of young Bartlett Cormack, who has dramatized the novelist's Tampico. At the Algon quin's oft-quoted "round table" Alex ander Woollcott, most vivid and volu ble of the Gotham dramatic critics, was enthroned. Also in evidence: those waggish wights, Robert Benchley and Donald Ogden Stewart; Dorothy Par ker, the poet; Harpo Marx, first of the Four Marx Brothers (count them, four!) ; Marc Connolley and George Kaufman, the play-writers; Ernest Boyd, the erudite and red-bearded Irish critic; and Harold Ross, who edits The "Hew Tor\er and who does not in the least resemble Ramon Novarro. Around the room I noticed a sprightly assort ment of former Chicagoans: Burton Rascoe, the energetic young editor of The Boo\man; Charles MacArthur, co-author of Lulu Belle, who is by way of collaborating upon a new play with Sidney Howard (provided Mr. Howard can lock him in a room with a type writer and a box of animal crackers — and throw away the key!); handsome Henry Sell, grand vizier of the But- terick publishing company, who re cently had the cross of the Legion of Honor hung upon his lapel for diplo matic services to that nation which ad vertises itself as La Belle France; J. P. McEvoy, custodian of the Potter's field of literature; and Ben Hecht, who used to write daring, cynical novels, but who now writes movie scenarios and believes the messages on Easter cards. Thus are the tangent circles of stage, cinema and belles lettres represented during the luncheon hour at the Algon quin. And, indeed, I have heard visit ing voyagers from the frontiers refer to the Algonquin as the only zoo in the world where the lions are fed at noon. -GENE MARKEY. TI4ECUICAG0AN n Adventure by Coupon An Inquiry Into the U nroll-Y our~Own Mode of Travel By GRAHAM and DOROTHY ALDIS IN the old days anyone moved by an ambition to explore ruins, disturb the privacy of the natives, or even merely to see strange scenery first was undertaking a serious proposition. After learning everything he could about the region he was planning to visit he must organize his expedition and among vairous other preparations, convert him self into a traveling department store — not forgetting the strings of beads, mir' rors and hard likker which all the na tive potentates along the line of march were invariably expected to expect. But today things are very different; in fact, so different that it is no longer even necessary to know in advance where the desired wilderness is located. Just go down to the Consolidated Ticket Of- fces. Every man behind the counter there is, ex officio, an authority on the Strange, the Picturesque, on Untouched Nature. There is no doubt about it. He, if anyone, will be able to find you just the thrill you need to break the monotony of your journey from one sinful center of civilization to the other. Get off your Pullman in the morning and you can be having a basket lunch with the aborigines by noon. If you should happen to be in the bailiwick of one railroad (which we shall not identify further) you will even be met by a lady who fulfills the functions of "Courrier Hostess." Her peripatetic hospitality is only exceeded by the fund of knowledge which her job requires. She knows first aid and first names all along the route. The flora, the fauna, the mean average an nual rainfall (when and if any) and the prospects for next year's mesquite crop. All these questions of yours are easy for her. IN history, archaeology and geology * she is at least a Ph. D. She identi' fied obsidian, tufa and lapis lazuli for us, but when we showed her an inter esting brown specimen which we had retrieved from among the ruins she un hesitatingly pronounced it "late An- heuser Busch." She is especially well informed about the pictographs or crude drawings on the walls of the caves and can interpret for you both those made by the earliest inhabitants which look something like this: — r s\ /l and those representing the more com plex emotions of later waves of bar barians. A typical example of this class is: — Legal tender still exists, but you use it only when separating some broken hearted and impoverished nobleman of the Toopje Tribe from his ancestral jewels or a string of beads (never mind, perhaps hell have some more to-mor row). For all ordinary purposes Fred H (there, I almost let out who's running all this) has gone back to Wampum in the form of little coupons with which you eat, sleep, travel, in fact, do everything but get a shoe shine. They don't shine 'em out there in God's country. It's an obvious waste of effort. Next year there ought to be coupons to make the Indians let themselves be photographed. They're very coy. One of the young Braves was lured from his irrigating ditch into a close-up with (and to) Imogene, but the squaws are evidently reserving their affections until the Prince of Wales visits them on his next trip. D UT to describe specifically some of the points of interest on one such trip. Magnificently situated upon a long plateau are the ruins of an ancient city. It consisted apparently of exclu sively 100 per cent cooperative apart ment houses of the type which have furnished inspiration to a modern school of architecture. The rooms were about six feet by three and archaeolo gists believe that certain smaller aper tures in the sides contained either kitch enettes or contrivances on the order of inadoor beds. Ultra-exclusiveness was assured by having only one entrance at which was stationed a doorman and corps of assistants equipped with an ample supply of tufa rock cut in the larger sizes so convenient for firing in winter (summer or any other time). Much can be learned from these early ruins, especially by those in the real estate business. In these gerat open spaces courtesy flourishes as it does nowhere else. Why speak without first having been intro duced when introductions flow so freely! Nowhere is any painful initia tive required for at each point of inter est the party is unloaded and recom- bined at the time set and with the most practised dexterity. The Indian, for all his traditional ceremoniousness, is put to it to rival the polished suavity of us, his visitors. We stand amongst the chickens until, after preliminary parley, our Courrier-Host- ess coos gently back, "We're all invited in." Then introductions follow: "Mrs. Seymour Fonderoy, Chief Jumping Toad." ("This is indeed a privilege." "Ugh.") "Miss Prosser and Miss Postel- thwaite, Chief Jumping Toad." ("What a charming little Pueblo you have, ." "Ugh.") "Mr. Rosenkatz, Chief Jumping Toad." ("Veil, veil, ." "Ugh.") "Mrs. Rosenkatz, Chief Jumping Toad. And this is little Sadie Rosen katz." ("Ugh, Ugh, Ugh!") and Sadie bursts into tears. THE normal "expedition" comes and goes and the objects of their curi osity are unmoved. But an occasional flurry disturbs the placidity of the Pueblo. As when a bearded anthropol ogist from Boston appeared with the most magnificent scientific credentials. He was sent out with an escort in structed to facilitate his quest in every way. Face to face with an object of his investigation he demanded: "Tell that woman I desire to meas ure her body." The Courrier-hostess did. And he tried. But that day science received a set-back. 12 The Boy Lindy An Idea for the Committee LET'S help keep Lindy young! Let's give Chicago the reputation for recognizing the real heart of the boy (for that's all he is, the newspa pers insist). If Lindy comes to town, let's give him a bang-up game of tag inside those cute little tunnels for pedestrians over which commerce is erecting sky scrapers. Let's stage a potao-sack race in Lin coln Park. Let's take him to a matinee at the Roosevelt and allow him to stand in those snake lines on the Madison street curb. Let's take him out to the Zoo and give him a bag of peanuts for the monkeys. In all these weeks of fes tivities and aerial strategies Lindy, no doubt, has forgotten there is such a thing as a monkey cage. Lindy is only a boy, there seems no question about this, and he would much prefer to keep away from those stiff-collar events. Let's find him a swimming hple along the Des Plaines River, and let's tie his clothes in knots as he dives. The entertainment committee that prepares for Lindy's promised visit should go into this thing seriously, and if the newspapers continue to insist that he is only a boy, let's give him a boy's party, with pink ice cream, and a little girl in a gingham dress, and stomachaches and all. —LEIGH METCALFE. Itinerary With Suitable Omissions Why he said he went: "Travel is so educational. It broad ens one's intellectual horizon; it en larges one's outlook on life; it in creases culture and vision, and it in culcates a more reverent appreciation of one's own country." His real reasons for the tour: ENGLAND— its Scotch. GERMANY— its beer. FRANCE — its champagne. RUSSIA— its vodka. ITALY- — its wines. JAPAN — its sake. —ROBERT HAGE "South Wind — South Wind — Blo-ow me home again " OVEKTONE/ THAT "thank you" you get from the telephone operator is ten dered in advance for overlooking the mistake in numbers she is about to make. ? Marriage licenses during the month of June this year totaled 5,639 in Cook County which is 42 less than in the same period in 1926. Thus far, this shortage has not been charged up to the dog races. ? President Coolidge is scheduled to become a chief of the Sioux Indians early in August. Many presidential aspirants are secretly hoping this new position will require all his time. ? What this country needs now more than anything else is a pillow that does not become a raging inferno during the hot weather. ? And then there is the woman who, in her bill for divorce, charged her husband with hitting her with a bras- sie during a dispute on the putting green. A brassie should never be used on the green. ? "Pie is not for flag pole sitters" — "Hold'em" Joe Powers, atop the Morrison flag pole. If flagpole sitting you'd achieve Just heave a heartfelt sigh Summon all your will power and — Cut out eating pie. ? When hailed into the court of domestic relations for nonsupport of his family, one of our1 local citizens testified that it was impossible to de- TI4CCI4ICAGOAN liver ice cream to our modern drug stores and stay sober. We don't know whether he was complaining or boasting. ? What is this "equality" the women are doing all the yelling about? Isnv that a step backward? ? A farmer down in Gallipolis, Ohio, complains to the prohibition authorities that his bees shirk their task of gathering honey, loiter about stills in the neighborhood and re turn to the hives at night staggering drunk. Our next Congress, un doubtedly, will pass a bill limiting the alcoholic content of honey. Local department stores are author ity for the statement that woman's attire now totals ten ounces in weight, exclusive of shoes. And the ten ounces don't cost much more than the ten pounds used to. ? This 5 -5 '3 naval ratio always did puzzle us and after reading reports of the Geneva meet we've about con cluded it's a form of stud poker with the deuces •wild. ? As far as we know there are no trans-Atlantic flights planned for the next ten days at least, which will give the French a chance to bring their stock of medals up to normal again. ? Well, the Fourth of July went over with a bang. Poetic Acceptances Rudyard Killing accents an In vitation to a Coffee Clatch in Singapore, Probably I pick up me fun where I find it And so I will come to your Clatch. I'll be there right on the minute, For who knows but what we can patch Up all the affairs of the Empire? We all are Victorier's sons, So I'll come to your clatch, though I shouldn't so sach And perhaps we can stick to our guns, Our guns, Perhaps we can stick to our guns. —DONALD PLANT. TWC CHICAGOAN 13 Yes, It's Paris A Series in Which an Aware Chicagoan Anticipates the Legionnaires "IF you want to see Paris once more, 1 better hurry over. It is becoming so Americanized it is hard to realize here that one is living in a foreign country." So one of my friends had written me, one of those expatriates who damn all things American, from a skyscraper to an ice-cream sundae. And so, I had been prepared for a certain invasion on the part of the Etats-Unis (not to speak of the International Ro- tarians, conventioning in Belgium and stopping off to "do" Paree, and forget' ting for a moment the imminent Le' gionnaires, who are due to descend some time in August or September, I believe). As I say, I had been pre pared for something, but I was not pre pared to find that Chicago's near'north' side and Greenwich Village had ef' fected an amalgamation and moved over to the Left Bank. Yet that is just what had happened. If you don't believe it, drop in on the Cafe Dome any evening — or, for that matter, any morning. The Cafe Dome, if you don't happen to know it, is the Paradise of the American College Boy in Transit and the Hangout of the Mis' understood Young Intellectual. He meets here (or at the Rotunde or the Select across the street) to discuss his amours and drinking escapades of the night before, over as many orange- blossom cocktails as some one can find the francs to pay for. It is all very thrilling, quite as thrilling as an Erie Street tearoom or a Washington Square speak-easy; and it all has quite as much to do with literature and the arts, which always hover discreetly in the background — the best thing they do is hover. It would be hard to say how many Great American Novels have been written in the Dome — and no where else — or how many Cezannes and Matisses have been painted there. When father back home gets a cable to step on the remittances, he is quite cer tain the franc must have shot up over night. Simple soul! He doesn't under stand anything about the high cost of creation in Montparnasse. But when son gets back to Harvard or the Mid way next fall, he's going to have some- By SAMUEL PUTNAM thing to, talk and strut about. Has he not lived in that awful and mystic place, "the quarter?" In short, has he not lived? Ah, oui, to quote the only French he knows. AS I sat in the Dome, over nothing more deadly than a demie of .Vichy, I could not help being struck by the familiarity to my ears of the conversation about me. "Creation," "the creative urge," "America," the artist soul." It was quite as familiar as a Huron Street highball or a North Clark Street jag. And I could not help picturing certain northside maidens, with red lips dropping Dowson and eyes that look the "Interpretation of Dreams." I could not help visioning them in this milieu. How utterly at home they would feel here — and how big, how very big, they would go over! But the campus boys don't spend all their time in cafes. Oh, dear, no. French garcons are extremely tolerant, and one may dawdle at least half a day over one cocktail, but — Well, the rest of the time they parade the quarter with their sticks and their bare heads, the double insignia of the tribe. And occasionally they take a bus (75 cen times, or about 3 cents) up to the Place de TOpera, just to give the natives of the Right Bank a treat. I have men tioned the Quartier Latin walking stick and the chapeauless cranium. Those are the only hard and fast requisites. Otherwise, anything goes in the matter of dress. Some one has said that in Montparnasse one may dress in any fashion to suit the fancy, but I, person ally, should never have believed there were so many varieties of human fancy in the world. I discovered, incident ally, that the weeping Windsor and the Byronic shirt-front are not dead or con fined to Tucker Alley. Sit on the cor ner of the boulevards Montparnasse and Raspail, on the terrasse of the one cafe which the Quarter does not fre quent (it is too high-priced), and watch the procession go by. OTHERWISE, Paris is much the same and doing nicely, thank you. Montmartre, it is true, is chiefly populated with Americans and devices for snaring American shekels, but Montparnasse and Montmarte are, after all, not Paris. The perennial tourist still confines his experiences very largely to the vicinity of the Opera, the Madeleine and the Boule vard des Italiens, where the presence of Thomas Cook and Sons, the American Express, American hotels and tourist agencies of one sort or another render it delightfully possible to see Paris and still feel perfectly at home. True, he takes in the regulation sights, under proper guidance, and he may sneak off at night to the Rat Mort or some sim ilar haunt near the Place Pigalle, but otherwise he knows fully as much about the French and French life as do the sophomores and their light-o'-loves at the Select or the Dome. All this, it may be stated, is not to be taken as disparaging Montparnasse. There was a time when real artists lived and worked there, just as they used to live and work in Montmarte in the days before it became a combina tion circus and street-carnival. Many of them, for that matter, are still to be found in the Quarter. There are also a number of young American "exiles" who frequent the Montparnasse cafes and who, strange to say, produce as well as talk. Among these one might mention Hemingway and McAlmon. But most of the production, as in the case of our own northside, remains ex clusively oral. For this, I am grateful. Unlike the late Sinclair Lewis, who be came peeved when he sat down in the Dome and no one noticed him, I found the atmosphere charmingly homey — quite as homey and quite as aesthet ically stimulating as, say, Bert Kelly's. Stables. 14 TI4E CHICAGOAN A Chicagoan s Summer Marginal Comment on the Exodus May 15. Dear Lucy : Why don't you come to me for that long deferred visit? Any time will be convenient, as I am going to be in town all season. You know Chicago is really a delightful summer resort. Do say you'll come as soon as possible and stay a long time. Eagerly, "Marion. June 1. Elsie, Old Thing: I just heard that you were going to Europe. Of course, you'll stop off in Chicago on your way east. Lucy will be with me after June fifth; so the three of us ought to have a wonderful time. Urgently, Marion. June 10. Dear Dot: You silly child! Why do you ask if I can put up up for the night? Haven't you always stayed with me on your way to and from college! Six thirty is a bit early to pack you off in the morn ing, but I suppose we can manage it if you insist on leaving then. Yours, with love, Marion. June 12. Rosemary, Dear: Are you really grown up enough to be going off to take entrance exams! Naturally you're a little timid about changing trains in a strange city and, of course, I'll meet you and see that you get off all right Monday morning. Is it seven o'clock Standard time or daylight saving? Lovingly, Marion. June 21. Dot/ What a scare you gave me by not appearing on the train you said you were going to take. I didn't receive your wire until I got back from the station. I'll meet you Saturday eve ning, but you'll miss my other guest. We were invited to a houseparty over that week-end and I won't let her give it up. As ever, Marion. June 30. Dearest Aunt Martha: So you're going to Banff! Isn't that splendid! I wish I could induce you to stay over in Chicago more than three days, but I know how useless it is to coax you. Much love, Marion. July 5. Dear Cousin Herbert: I will not make reservations for you at any hotel. You and Cousin Caro lyn are going to stay right here with us as you've always done. I'm afraid I won't be able to call for you at the station, but you just hop in a taxi and come right out to us. Affectionately, Marion. July 19. Millicent, Honey : What a question! Of course I want to see you. You are always welcome, but if it doesn't make too much differ ence to you, could you come August first instead of July twenty-ninth? It would be just a little more convenient. Best love, Marion. August 15. Dearest Uncle Jim: Aren't you nice to give up a day's fishing to stop over with me on your way north! I'd beg you to stay longer, but I have two house guests and I'm afraid I couldn't make you as comfort able as I should like. Your loving, Marion. August 20. Lucille, Dear: I'm so sorry you've been ill. You must be terribly disappointed not to be able to go east to bring Betty home from camp. And, my dear, I'm fright fully sorry, but I just can't manage to meet her that day. I have a dentist's appointment that I've already changed a dozen times. However, I'm getting Isabel to meet Betty for me. So very regretfully, Marion. August 30. Dear Bill: Such a surprise to hear that you and Ellen are coming to Chicago for the convention. I'm terribly sorry that I can't ask you to stop with me, but my cook is leaving. She is the fifth I've had this summer and the employment agency won't send me another. But be sure to give me a ring the moment you're established. Sorrowfully, Marion. September 6. Sue, Dear: Will you have luncheon with me on the tenth? Sorry I can't meet you at the train, but my car is permanendy out of commission. We'll have lunch eon down town. I have no cook. Yours, Marion. September 10. Dear Dot: If you want me to meet you on your way back to college you'll have to get here earlier than midnight. The doctor makes me go to bed at nine o'clock. As ever, Marion. September 15. Dear Polly: I'm terribly sorry that I won't be able to see you and your Paris frocks while you're in town this time. I*m going to a sanitarium tomorrow. Yours wanly, Marion. TI4ECI4ICAGOAN 15 Chicago A Currently Cherished To£ic in the National Magazines IT seems an established fact among the editors of newspapers and maga zines throughout the country that any reference to Chicago is good copy whether the subject matter refers to a bombing party on the west side, an em balming party on the south side, a mayoral election in the loop or a gen eral- disputation of the kindly theory that Chicago is the literary center of the country. Not so very long ago there appeared in The "Hew Republic an article about this gleg city, written by Mr. Robert Morse Lovett, an astute gentleman who divides his time between the contradic tory tasks of encouraging new writers at the University of Chicago and dis couraging all writers by pinning Tsjetc Republic rejection slips to their manu scripts. Mr. Lovett is of the staff of that magazine. And his article, ma jestically executed, gives a clear, unpo litical picture of this bustling, sprawl ing city. In the same issue of that paper there was printed a long disquisition regard ing the election of Mr. Thompson. The author appeared insecure of his facts; he seemed not at all anxious to give in formation. But the general impression ¦was that he frowned upon the election of Mr. Thompson. A disapprobation which caused little comment. And then there was Vanity Fair fur nishing its readers with Sherwood Anderson's vague impression of the sprightly Chicago. Mr. Anderson, who used to write some of the best short stories in the American library, was, in this crotchet, too eerie to be taken seriously; he relied for his perora- tional passages upon such phrases as, translated, would weep along some thing like this: "Oh, Chicago, why didn't you grow more corn, why didn't you raise more hogs?" A kindly, well-intended article which disillusioned only • Mr. Anderson's staunchest admirers. Collier's displayed brisk words by William Allen White, a learned gen tleman of fine points, who gave his opinion regarding the election of Mr. Thompson as mayor of this city. Mr. White, a sturdy journalist, does not By JOHN McGRATH rely upon impressions to get across his point; he vibrates a mid- western virility that is approximately as subtle as the noon whistle. Mr. White's article is very clear. Even the Saturday Evening Post broke recently into refined print re garding Chicago society. Its para graphs set forth the information that the social whirl of this merry city re lied for its claim to distinction neither on the un-American pronunciation of Boston matrons nor on the uninhibited capers of New York gentlemen. Its point is vague but encouraging. It goes on to state that Chicago society is an institution of itself, influenced by no foreign contacts. And there are those who feel that the author of that state ment is a gentleman not to be ap proached without genuflections. Not to be outdone, the July issue of Harpers carried fifteen pages on the election of Mr. Thompson. Certainly the mayor has come in for his share of magarine attention. From the jacket of that issue which carried in 24-point bold-face the interrogation — How Would You Like to Have Mayor Thompson for President? — one sus pects that the author has taken a defi nite stand. A hollow supposition. And after reading the article the discrim inating observer is willing to admit that the jacket and its inscription was exe cuted by no less compelling an author ity on politics than an over-ambitious circulation department. The paper was written by Mr. Elmer Davis, an Indianapolis citizen, who is at present connected with New York journalism, two factors which must be remembered when one reads his astute paragraphs. It is not to be denied, however, that Mr. Davis knows something of the his tory of Chicago elections and political issues. And it is also a positive fact that he is a consummate phraser of the English language. But there are times when he subtilizes to the extent that there might be a few readers — not including myself — who insist that he is anxious to see his lines in print if only to learn his own point of view. And there are those who feel that his re-reading of certain sections will pro voke within him about as much confu sion and consternation as the President of the Eat-More-Vegetables-Associa- tion who, out of sheer deviltry, ordered a cannibal sandwich and found before her a mess of raw meat. And, to dig up the dead past, there is yet the flaming memory of Mr. Sam uel Putnam's Chicago: An Obituary which appeared in the American Mer cury. In it, some still remember and cannot forget, the author told in no uncertain terms his ideas regarding the Chicago school of literature. Chicago read it and, except for the recondite few, scoffed; the rest of the country read it and smiled. Whether any or all of these maga zine essays uttered incontinent dero gation or downright unblushing praise of the city, its citizens and its choice of mayor is not the issue of these cheerful paragraphs. It is interesting only in so much as it is pleasant to realize that the name Chicago in a headline will attract the perduring as well as the casual reader with as much certainty as a den tist pulling teeth in a West Madison Street window. 16 TUE CHICAGOAN July — undressed and steaming — provokes cafters at The Oak Street Beach. H4E CHICAGOAN 17 CI-HCAGOANJ" ONE summer's day an elegantly gowned little lady, carrying a cane, was strolling in her front yard — Lincoln Park. Suddenly she noticed a little girl watching her curiously, medi tatively, speculatively. The little lady smiled. The little girl, unsmiling, asked abruptly : "Are you an old lady?" "Well," chuckling, "there's some dis pute about that. But — I can do any thing you can." And Amy Leslie and the little girl laughed delightedly. The little girl did not dream, how ever, of the many things Amy Leslie can do and has done so much better than most of us. As for age — Time's numerical calculation by years — what does it matter? Amy Leslie — known and beloved by the world of yesterday as Lillie West, a famous comic opera soprano; known and admired by the world of today as one of its dramatic critics and writers — is ageless, brim ming over with mental vigor, spiritual vitality, and — charm. Most everyone knows about Amy Leslie, dramatic critic of The Daily T^lews, "dowager duchess" of social gatherings, helping friend of theater folk. But only a choice few remember or know Lillie West, the girl who, half a century ago, thrilled her audiences with her interpretation of the role of Princess Fiametta, in Audran's comic opera, "La Mascotte." "That was a great role,' reminisced Miss Leslie enthusiastically. "There was a part in it where I kicked my slip per way out into the audience — a dar ing thing to do in those days — and men would fight to possess it. Then, after the theater, they would go and drink my health from Princess Fiametta's slipper." HOW did it start? "It just happened — the way things do. After I graduated from St. Mary's of Notre Dame with high hon ors I became the soprano in Bishop Foley's quartette choir. I was there a year, studying at the same time for grand opera. Then, the next thing I knew I was on the stage with the Tem- pleton company — Fay Templeton's father was the manager — where I cre ated the role of Princess Fiametta.' "Then you had none of the strug- Princess Fiametta gles so generally a part of career-build ing?" "No," scoffed Miss Leslie. "I had a beautiful voice and ability, and when one has ability and is willing to work, there are no struggles." Egotistic? No! Amy Leslie is just frankly confident of her particular ca pabilities. She has always known what she can and cannot do. And there are still a few left, like Fay Templeton, Lilly Langtry, De Wolf Hopper, E. H. Sothern, and Julia Marlowe, who know the genius of Lillie West. Perhaps the greatest joy and the greatest grief of her life came to Lillie West through her marriage to Harry Brown, a brilliant comic opera actor who played Lorenzo in "La Mascotte." Her greatest joy was motherhood — the possession of Francis Albert, a lovely blue-eyed, chubby baby boy. Her great est grief — the loss of Francis Albert when he was just five years old. "His death was very sudden," explained Miss Leslie softly. "We were out west with the De Wolf Hopper opera com pany at the time, playing 'Castles in the Air' — which, by-the-way, has noth ing whatever to do with the recent atrocity of the same name. I shall never forget how I felt. It was a ter rible shock. I lost my voice, quit the stage then and there, and I have never — never," she repeated emphatically, "sung a note since — not a note. "Soon after I divorced Harry Brown — (oh, most amicably! There was noth ing serious — we just got in each other's way) — and came back to Chicago, where my folk lived." "O HORTLY after I saw an ad in O The Daily J^ews for a woman to write for one of its columns called 'What One Woman Sees.' My mother advised my answering it, thinking it would be an ideal way for me to get my mind off my sorrow. So I did." And Miss Leslie went on to tell me the humorous and oft-repeated episode of how she finally became dramatic critic of The Daily Kiews. The dram atic critic at that time was in New York. Miss Leslie's writing had at tracted the attention of the managing editor, TenEyck White. Consequently, Amy Leslie 18 THE CHICAGOAN he decided to give Miss Leslie a chance to review De Wolf Hopper's "Castles in the Air," which was to open that night at the old Grand Opera House. It was winter, and a terrific blizzard was raging. Thinking it foolish, there fore, to review a play she knew back wards, Miss Leslie spent the evening in the warm comfort of her own home in stead, writing a brilliant review of a performance which didn't "perform" — as she discovered the next day — be cause the company was snowbound somewhere west of Denver. "And Mr. White gave me a piece of advice that next day which I have never forgotten and have followed im- plicity. 'Never,' he told me briskly, 'never write a review of a play which you haven't seen from the time the cur tain goes up on the first act to the final curtain of the last act.' " Miss Leslie's second marriage to Frank Buck, now a famous wild animal trapper, then only a very young man with an uncertain future, was the occa sion of much criticism among those who did not know the wholesome and unselfish woman whose favor was sought by so many famous men of the day. But, wisely or unwisely, she fol lowed the dictates of her own mind and heart, and did what she believed to be right. And her friends — Minnie Maddern Fiske, Modjeska, Lillian Rus sell, Melba, Emma Eames, Sarah Bern hardt, Calve, Nat Goodwin, Beerbohm Tree, Henry Irving and many other celebrities who to the present genera tion stand for the romance of the the ater — these friends never wavered in their love and loyalty to one whose in tegrity they believed beyond criticism. —EDNA I. ASMUS. Neighborly Item Anent Naive Milwaukee NOT so long ago that it could be termed long ago and yet not so recent that it could rightly be called re cent, Claude, my man, Claude, came buzzing into my study with what he classed a "perfect model of an idea." Claude is forever buzzing around. In fact, of late I have been calling him "The Fresno Bee, always buzzing around." And that he is. But Claude had a piece of paper in his hand. It was more than a piece of paper: it was a clipping. The clipping said that in 1926 in Milwaukee (Wis consin) there were 20,000,000 pints of ginger ale consumed. Twenty million pints! Those individuals having the un usual good fortune to reside within the corporate limits of Milwaukee (Wis consin) consumed, part and parcel, 20,- 000,000 pints of various brands of ginger ale. Claude was ready, pencil pointed and poised^ for instant action. From the above fact (and it is a fact) Claude and I have the following to divulge. Let us say that three pints of ginger ale acre utilized with each pint of gin consumed. All right, three pints of ginger ale are utilized with each pint of gin consumed. Then, in Milwaukee last year there were 6,666,666.66 pints of gin used. We can stop well enough with the decimal point, because there may have been a couple of people who drank their ginger ale unadulterated. One pint of ginger ale will make about three drinks; consequently, there were approximately 60,000,000 drinks sunk in Milwaukee last year. If it takes three minutes to mix a drink (and it does take about three minutes, unless one is in a hurry) 180,- 000,000 minutes were spent in mixing drinks, or 3,000,000 hours, 125,000 24-hour days, 4,032.26 months, or 342 years 2 months and 12 days. And, what with gin retailing, usually, at $2.00 per pint, $13,333,- 333.32 were spent on gin. If we suppose that one spends aoout 9 or 10 minutes sinking one drink (and doesn't one? Unless he is in a hurry!) that would be three times the number of minutes used for mixing, 540,000,000 minutes, or 1,026 years 10 months and 5 days spent by Milwau- keeans in drinking last year. There must have been an enormous amount of ice consumed, too. We could figure out that, only Claude can' not remember the specific gravity or something of ice. And, really, there is no telling how many lemons were squeezed. Nor can we give statistics as to the number of times Clara Bow and Gilda Gray were toasted. But does it matter? —DON CLYDE. The Pier Painlessly Projected Pictures I. ALONG ARM reaching into the lake with a lighted tower in its hand — Trolley cars discharging hordes of hot humanity — A moon- faced man eating peanuts — A hunchbacked woman with a brood of dirty-faced youngsters — A department store clerk, hatless and with greased hair, attempting to get a coat of tan in an hour — A fat woman who looks like her corns hurt — A flat-footed waiter out for a breath of fresh air — A barber with a head of long hair, sticky with pomade, enjoy ing a day off — A bald-headed man in a rocker trying to nap — Big white steam ers tied to the dock like giant swans held captive — A myriad of gasoline launches darting about like insects — Four colored jazz musicians on an ex cursion steamer playing and singing to draw the crowd — A pop-eyed baby with the whooping cough — The droon- ing of the mechanical organ on the merry-go-round — Two lovers necking behind a pillar — A long line of rough looking stevedores loading a ship with freight, singing as they work and sweat — There goes a new straw hat into the lake — A baby with colic whose yell is heard above the roar of the crowd — Six women eating a family lunch — A South State street dandy and his girl holding hands as they walk — A big dance hall with a floor as shiny as winter ice in the sun — A thousand couples dancing in close, sticky em' brace — A rheumatic old man trying to get up from a bench — Water flopping against the side of the pier — A funny old lady who brought her pet canary with her because she feared to leave it home alone. Night, and thousands of electric lights enliven the scene. — Several hours later the crowd melts away, the lights go out and the big pier has lived an other day. — G. W. FMECUICAGOAN 19 Sweet Adeline Go Softly and Not a Little Sad THERE are times, of course, when a man must make sacrifices. Now the loop means nothing to me — has meant nothing for nearly nine years — but when a friend who left Chicago during what historians now call "the good old days" telephoned me from the Sherman, "I want to see what pro hibition and time have done to Chi cago's famous drinking places," I had not the heart to refuse and so together we set forth, like two alcoholic ghosts, to explore the loop we used to know and love so well. We started from the Hotel Sherman lobby and recalled the mirrored barroom of the old hostelry where prominent political leaders, public officials, actors, bankers, newspaper men and business barons of all classes gathered daily to quench their thirst and gossip. A haber dashery occupies the premises in the new hotel. The collars are still there but shirts replace the amber fluid. My friend bore up under this first shock nicely and we stepped out onto the sidewalk. Walking east in Ran dolph street through the heart of the old Rialto, and between the Olympic and Garrick theatres, we stopped in front of the site of the old Union restaurant and bar. It was a favorite meeting place of prominent public men. Back of the bar was six brands of imported beer and its temperature was watched by the bar men as care fully as a physician looks after the temperature of a fever patient. Former Governor John P. Altgeld, former Mayor Carter H. Harrison, former Mayor Fred Busse and scores of other public men were frequently seen here. A sidewalk observation was enough. A sweeping glance re vealed a restaurant, an orange juice stand and a barber shop. At this point I suggested the Muni cipal Pier or Paul Ash, but he was obdurate — a glutton for punishment. Directly across the street was Tom Moran's bar, noted for fine whisky and a brand of hard cider that possessed a terrible kick. When the regulars decided to go on the water wagon for awhile they drank this cider with highly satisfactory results. Old Tom Moran was the personal friend of nearly every prominent man in the city and died at a ripe old age leaving nearly a million dollars. His whisky had a peculiar honey-like mellowness that was the envy and despair of his business competitors and the place was nearly always crowded. After he died his secret was revealed. He used to put a gallon or two of sherry wine in every barrel of whisky. A few doors west in Randolph street we stopped in front of what used to be Tom Hanton's bar, a great resort for politicians and sporting men. The late "Smiley" Corbett, famous loop raconteur and wit, made his head quarters here. There was a famous back room where Tom and "Smiley" entertained their friends by singing Irish songs in a style peculiarly their own. Tom Nawn, an actor, once bet Hanton five hundred dollars he could not eat thirty quail in as many days. Hanton formerly worked in north side rolling mills and possessed an appetite that was the pride and wonder of the neighborhood. Hanton ate his quail every night at Charley King's res taurant in Wells street near Madison street and frequently forgot about the quail until after he had eaten a hearty dinner. Then he would eat the quail for dessert. In paying the wager Nawn remarked: "I should have made it a turkey." A dairy lunch room occupies the space today. We continued walking west in Ran dolph street until midway between LaSalle and Wells streets, the location of the old Bismarck restaurant and bar, a great spot for the thirsty in the old days. It was patronized by Germans, public officials and various types of professional men. "Great beer here in the old days," remarked my friend. "Half a dozen different kinds served in cold steins." "Yes, and don't for get the May wine," I said. The old location is now improved, as the realtors say, with a new hotel, theatre and office building. We gazed in sorrow at the new Burnham building at the northwest corner of Randolph and LaSalle streets, which has supplanted Old Quincy No. 9, a famous beer saloon where city hall employes, contractors and policemen used to gather. Next we strolled over to Joe Schlogl's famous restaurant and wine bar in Wells street between Washing ton and Madison and found the old building just as it was. The tables were crowded with diners, but the atmosphere was subdued and different. There was not a smile in the place, despite the excellence of the food. The wine bar was closed. Here, in the old days, might be found Marshall Field, Levi 2. Leiter, Levy Mayer, Adolph Kraus, Harry Hart and a dozen other celebrities of the business and professional world. Around the corner on Madison street was Vogelzang's, famous for its distinguished clientele and beverages. Unusual mixed and fancy drinks of various kinds was a specialty of this place. There was a large, well stocked wine cellar of which the owner was justly proud. Many a gay party was held in this wine cellar. We walked to LaSalle street, turned north to the alley and stopped where Mangler's famous restaurant formerly was situated. It was a narrow hole in the wall, finished in mahogany and patronized by politicians, actors and newspaper men. The old place has been converted into a gloomy looking bank. We came to the new Palmer House. It was too much. The old Palmer House bar, noted for its mint juleps and fine whiskies, was headquarters for horse owners and class book makers. The recollection was blurring my guest's eye. "Think," his voice was dull, enunciation plainly painful, "think of investing twenty million dollars in a hotel without a bar in it." "Yes, it's terrible," I said. "But come with me. I know a place — " "No," he stopped me, "I've tried the speakeasies and I don't like 'em. They're always full of drunks." —GEORGE COLLIER WHARTON. 20 TUECUICAGOAN Backgrounds By One Who Knew Them When— Joseph Medill Patterson was commissioner of public works under Mayor Dunne and in politics was classed as a Socialist. He wrote plays on the side, and some pretty good ones, too; "The Fourth Estate," a story of newspaper life, and "Dope," a vaude ville sketch about the Chicago under world. ? R. R. McCormick served a term as alderman from the old 21st ward. Later he was president of the Chicago Drainage Board and practiced law for a time before he decided to take up newspaper work and became one of the "big bosses" of The Tribune. ? Percy Hammond came to Chicago to seek fame and fortune from a town in Ohio so small that it did not have a theatre, and got a job on the City Press association at a salary of ex actly $14 a week. Previously he worked as a compositor in the govern ment printing office at Washington, D. C. ? John C. Shaffer was a clerk in the office of a Chicago Board of Trade firm and taught a Sunday school class in the Grace M. E. Church, LaSalle avenue and Locust street. Peter Finley Dunne was a clerk in the freight office of a railroad in Chicago, before he took up writing for a living and became a reporter on the Chicago Daily J<[ews. ? Richard Henry Little came to Chicago from Bloomington and served as reporter, war correspondent, feature writer and dramatic critic on different Chicago newspapers before becoming R. H. L. ? "Harry J. Powers was an usher at old Hooley's Theatre in Randolph street. Later he became the lessee and changed the name to Powers Theatre. ? George Ade came to town from a small city in Indiana and got a job as reporter for the Chicago Daily 7<iews. He lived in a hall bed-room on Chest nut street near Clark. Road Map— II For Extreme Cases I HE common or roof garden type * of catch-as-catch-can visitor to the city having been duly disposed of in the July 2 issue of this journal, and presumably having returned to the home town bubbling over with colorful if not wholly accurate accounts of his adventures in the no-orchestral-gin places, a word about the easy way out in the more extreme extremities may be in order. The single quite definite fact about these casual visitors with un- casual ideas is that there will be more of them. They even repeat, although that constitutes a reflection upon the host and is a personal matter. This more specifically adventurous fellow, the one who takes the Chicago papers and notes addresses in the bright little stories on page 5, knows what he wants. He wants to drive, and reck lessly, to out-of-the-way places (both ways) and risk his cranium among the shrapnel. Nothing less exciting than the Argonne will satisfy, and nothing less deadly than the home town brew. Unhappily, he can be legitimately served in neither particular, but he can be deceived. And, of course, that's what he really wants. The drive is insurmountable. No other way of getting to the frontier will satisfy. To Dempster Road, then, by a deceptively circuitous route and with stop-overs at closely spaced points of contact with the liquor problem. Out Dempster, finally, and with the cutout open if possible, passing enough places to prompt uneasy inquiry. With the guest in this frame of mind, one may roll up in front of The Dells, which has been suitably and pardon ably slandered prior to arrival, and ex hibit the dashingly painted structure with a double caution against betrayal of expectancy. A murder or two can be libelously attributed to the scene, a sneer can express regret at the evident quietude, and leave-taking may be ef' fected within the hour. A few re marks, now, about the popularity of another evening (preferably the pre' ceding one) among the marksmen. Next, although fictitious mileage should be run up between, a stop may be made at The Lincoln Tavern. An other hour here, perhaps, and then on (it's just around the corner) to The Garden of Allah. By this time the guest should have been primed to ex pect anything, in which event the pic turesque — if stagey — appearance of the place can be made to convince him that he's seen everything. As a mat ter of fact, unless you're lucky enough to run onto stray gunners who forget where they are, he has. Unlike the downtown and near' downtown places listed in the initial in' stallment of this series, the remoter route offers little possibility of abandon ing the well started adventurer to his adventures. It is practically necessary to take him back to his hotel, which is the next step and should be taken as soon as slumber can be induced. If purchases have been discreetly selected, the host should be free by four o'clock and there is little likelihood of further annoyance for fully forty-eight hours. — w. f. Anacreon to Date CARM. XV. ADVICE TO THE AGED (Philo geronta terpnon.) An old buck's all right, If his manners are mild; You may foxtrot all night, If you're a mere child. But if you've a date With the undertaker, Don't act too elate — You're a jolly old faker. Though your "line" may be bright, Your spiketail quite dapper, Don't stay up all night To dance with a flapper. — HELLENIKOS- TI4ECWICAGOAN 21 JOURNALI/TIC JOURNEYS Pay As You Enter WHETHER you ride in them or consider them merely as traffic nuisances, our decorative chrome and crimson street cars have, no doubt, re cently shared in the sum total of your passing thoughts, if not your conversa tion. City editors consider the clang ing carry-alls of the high and by-ways to be! second only to the weather in popular interest. Every man jack and woman jill of us has, does or will eventually ride in one. They are the common denominator of the traveling public. Thus, when something hap pens directly concerning them, such as a street accident or an impending strike of the motormen and conductors, every one of the aforementioned city editors in the town gets an acrid, elusive whiff of that something known as news. The employes of the Chicago Sur face lines, numbering approximately fifteen thousand men, through their duly elected union officials, have never been shy or backward in apprais ing their hourly worth to the company, and of course, indirectly, therefore to the public. Like many other artisans, banded together for more efficient collective bargaining, the bell ringers and fare collectors in Chicago are mem bers of an organisation embracing the street car employes of every city of size in the United States and Canada. It is called, if you please, The Inter national Amalgamated Association of Street and Electric Railway Workers of America! Like the United Mine workers, with their "Poker Faced" John Lewis, the street car men have a guiding genius. He is a rugged Celt, answering to the name of William D. Mahon. His title is international presi dent of the tongue twister spelled out above. Associated with him in the huge task of keeping thousands of wage earners contented and happy are the officers of the various ' union divi sions, of which the Chicago unit is No. 241. President of this division is smil ing but inscrutable William Quinlan. A list of the other international and local officers would read like a roll call of the Friends of Irish Freedom. Men of keen perception all, they know the one great urge, desire and ambition of the average wage earner is for a raise in pay. That, in substance, is the reason we are reminded approximately once a year by flaring headlines that unless the men get their demand, the city's transportation system will suddenly cease to function. Much less publicity is accorded the usual compromise, effected a week or so later through a series of quiet, friendly meetings be tween the union bosses and the moguls of the company. True, street car strikes of from two to five days' dura tion have occurred in Chicago, but when such a crisis arises, you may rest assured it is in spite of everything the union officers could do to prevent it. IF you are familiar with the details of Chicago's traction situation you have a master mind. An explanation of Dr. Einstein's noted theory of rela tivity would consume less space and tax the ability of a writer, not to men tion the patience of a reader, much less than an earnest setting down in words the ins and outs of Chicago's street car franchise technicalities. One or two facts, however, in relation thereto have a direct bearing on the so-called present strike situation. Chief of these is a receivership appointed last January by Federal Judge Wilkerson for the Chicago Railway company, which owns sixty per cent of the sur face lines. This action grew out of the generally muddled state of affairs. As a result, any granting of increased wages to the men — they are asking 15 cents more an hour, free insurance and sick benefits, this time — must be sub mitted to and receive the approval of the federal court before becoming effective. So much, possibly too much, for the arid and somewhat raspy facts. Behind them are personalities, always more interesting. Assuming that we know enough of what it's all about to be puzzled over the possible outcome of the controversy, let's sit in, as re porters, on the fringe — the real re porters can get no nearer — of the actual councils. First we'll dash out to the Ashland boulevard auditorium building, the headquarters of the union. On the second floor are the offices and conference rooms. In all of them are groups of red-faced jolly looking fellows, apparently engaged in passing back and forth the latest quips and wise-cracks of the day. The air is heavy-laden with cigar smoke. In the ante-chamber of President Quinlan's offices, a number of large rooms facing Ashland boulevard, we join a group of newspaper reporters. They are speculating on what is going to happen, piecing together each bit of information, gathered here and there, for the purpose of reaching a common and logical conclusion. Their chief reason for being present is the fact that Mr. Quinlan and Mr. Mahon, with the other international and local officers, are holding a secret session, presumably to decide on a course of action. The company has refused the first formal demand for a pay increase and it is the union's move. "I tried to get something out of Quinlan this morning," says one of the reporters, whereat the others smile, knowingly. "He said he thought it would be a nice day." A moment later the reporters jump to their feet and crowd eagerly towards the door of the president's office, from which the shaggy iron-gray head of International President Mahon is pro truding. "Well, boys," he begins, "we've decided to have another conference with the company. We'll go down there at two o'clock this afternoon. That's all." If you read the edition of afternoon papers which went to press soon after this statement was intoned by Mr. Mahon, the first paragraph read some thing like this: "Chance of a street car strike faded today as the result of a conference of union officials in the Ashland audi torium headquarters. It was decided to hold another conference with the company before making a definite re port to the men." TWO o'clock finds us still with the reportorial group, but now we are in the magnificent hallways of big business. To be exact we are on the fourteenth floor of the Illinois Mer- 22 TUECUICAGOAN chants Bank building, headquarters of the surface lines. Down the corridor, be hind safely locked and guarded doors, the union representatives are closeted, presumably in antagonistic argument with Henry A. Blair, president, and other officials of the company. The result of their talk may mean the street car strike on which we have been speculating. A suave, soft spoken publicity repre sentative of the company has politely escorted us to an unoccupied confer ence room, where we have been seated in easy chairs, offered a cigar and told to make ourselves at home until the big conference is over. At the end of an hour, possibly two, our host, the company press agent, again appears and announces the conference has ad journed and we may go in to ask our questions. We do and get a surprise. From Mr. Blair's office, as we ap proach, comes the sound of hearty laughter. As we enter we catch Mr. Blair, a rather small but smartly groomed man of slightly more than middle age, slapping his "adversary," Mr. Mahon on the back, the while both guffaw loudly over the story one has evidently just finished telling the other. Others in the room also seem entirely too merry and friendly to in dicate any trace of the tense, warlike atmosphere we had expected. When we have assembled in a line before those seated around Mr. Blair's desk, Mr. Mahon speaks up as follows: "They want me to do the talking, boys, and all I've got to say is that we have failed to reach an agreement. We will hold another meeting tomorrow. I guess that's about all there is to say, isn't that so, Mr. Blair?" Mr. Blair smiles and nods approval. Attempts at questioning by some of the more diligent news seekers meets with curt rebuff. Disappointed, the re porters file out again and go back to their several offices, each with his own theory as to the probability of a strike. One cynic of long experience at report ing street car conferences wore a derisive smile as he left the conference room. His verdict was, "Just another frame-up to gyp the public. It was all arranged before-hand. The union agrees to threaten a strike so the com pany can demand another cent more fare. If they get it the union will get its share in the form of a raise, but I'll bet the boys on the cars won't get nearly as big a piece of pie as they want; they never do." Settlement of the wage difference seemed more likely as these lines were written than at any time since the de mand was made, making the odds rather long on the chance that as you read them this year's street car strike will have failed to materialize and get ting anywhere save by boulevard will continue uninterruptedly among our probably insoluble problems. — JOSEPH DUGAN. Chicago Guide III. After Baedeker MICHIGAN BOULEVARD has atmosphere. One buys it at the shops along the avenue. Michigan Boulevard is the cleanest street in the world. The Stevens Hotel alone con tains more bath tubs than there are in any of the capitals of Europe. Up to comparatively modern times Michigan Boulevard was washed by the waves of Lake Michigan. Now the lake has been removed at least half a mile east and sand blasting is in vogue. The street is still approached from the east, however, by a series of remarkable bridges over the turbulent Illinois Central. The bridges at Eleventh and Eighth Streets are magnificent struc tures of steel and wood, the former be ing particularly remarkable for the re verse English at the western end. The Randolph Street Bridge is paved al most entirely with loose planks. At Twelfth Street, or Park Row, as it is called by conductors, stands the historic pile known as the Central Sta tion of the Illinois Central. What dis tinguishes this from all other railroad stations is that, in order to board a train, the traveler must first climb a high flight of stairs and then descend an equal number of steps. Looking north from Twelfth Street the tourist gets a picture post card view of Chicago's skyline, terminating in the greatest Chevrolet sign in Chevrolet history. The stranger will be interested to note that there is only one building on the east side of the street, the rest of the space being reserved for munici pal Christmas trees and reviewing stands. One of the sign boards for which Chicago is justly famous stands at Har rison Street, announcing that here a foot bridge will be erected. (The vis itor will notice a number of these signs of the flamboyant Pre-Cusack school.) From Eighth Street to Van Buren are four hotels in inverse chronological or der: the new Stevens, the Blackstone, where movie stars are photographed en route from Hollywood to New York; the Congress, noted for its Alley where there are always a number of Sallies, and the Auditorium, which is used dur ing the opera season by music patrons who prefer to have their cars call for them on Michigan Boulevard. At Van Buren Street is the entrance to Chicago's longest east and west sub way. The traveler should note here also another of the aforementioned signs. This one was put up as a har binger of a future footbridge. The last of this series of signs stands at Jack' son Boulevard. Sight-seers should note the beautiful background color and the delicate shading. The artist who exe cuted it is unknown. On the opposite corner of Jackson Boulevard is a musi' cal building which chimes every quar- ter hour. Strangers in Chicago often imagine that the building on the northwest cor' ner of Michigan and Adams is a toy store. They get that impression from the various mechanical contrivances dis played in the windows. These, how ever, are only advertisements for the opera and demonstrations of the fact that you can do it better with gas. —RUTH G. BERGMAN. TI4CCWICAGOAN 23 The Silent Gold Coast Where Exclusiveness Afifiroaches Infinity CHICAGO is almost as famous for its Gold Coast — the patrician skyline on the near north side — as it is for its spectacular boose splattered murders written across the front pages of its screaming dailies to the rat-tat- tat of gangsters' machine guns. But how many people know that there is a second Gold Coast in which the light fingered gentry who do not spare the "rod" frequently while away the time, yeah, even at the expense of the city that is their target ground, and as guests of the society which gave their abode its name? Yet such indeed is the case. This secondary Gold Coast is a tier of cells high in the innards of the fortress-like Cook County jail at Austin and Dearborn Streets, in which unruly murderers, dips, racketeers, con men, hijackers, and other gentlemen of devious calling spend weeks, months, perhaps longer, in hellish solitary con finement to break their "spirit" and give them ample opportunity to ruminate on their sins. No matter how tough an egg a man may think he is, the moment he shows signs of boiling, a session in the Gold Coast will make him as meek as the proverbial lamb. There is no greater fear, even of death itself, in most criminals' hearts than that of a term in the tiny cells, alone, day after day, week after week, with a monotonous diet of seeing no one, talking to no one, until their own shadows screech at them for loneliness and cry at them for mercy from the solitude. This silence soon shrinks the courage of stalwart desperadoes like an astringent, quickly reducing them to mere nothings of themselves. And that is why they fear and hate the Gold Coast, and why this tier of silence partitioned off into cubicles of steel is one of the best disciplinary measures in this entire institution seething with 1,100 twisted souls that once were human beings. THIS Gold Coast is but one of a number of interesting features of the famous institution now run with military precision under the tutelage of Sheriff Graydon and Warden Fo- garty and shown in a tour of inspection guided by the latter. The only really gruesome part of it all is the humanity itself. The jail is merely an austere but humane witness of the constant stream of flotsam which seeps through its iron bars, either to further punish ment or freedom. Two of the upper floors are devoted to women prisoners. Most of them are awaiting trial or final sentencing. The cases of some are awaiting disposition in higher courts. A few of the in' mates are actually serving sentences. Instead of containing practical rem nants of the Spanish Inquisition, as some of the laity may erroneously imagine, the jail is a quiet, neat and orderly affair, yes, even a happy one for many. Hours of playtime in the exercising space are liberal, inter* course with fellow prisoners during these times is easy and constant. Good behavior results in further free dom attendant upon doing chores, which helps to break the monotony. Guards are not allowed to carry weapons, nor to strike the prisoners. The only weapon is the silent Gold Coast, which is ever ready, always perfect. The women prisoners, lolling about in the enclosures between their rows of cells, are an uncriminal looking lot. There are two murderesses in this first group but Warden Fogarty has to point them out. One of them, a lithe, red haired ribbon-counter-looking maid runs into her cell to escape prying eyes. She had shot her sweetheart one night when she lost her temper. The other is a stalwart middle aged woman dressed in a white apron, assisting the overseer and looking more like a placid nurse than a wife who has recently loaded a gun full of nuts and bolts, then let the charge fly at her husband, scattering him nearly all over the place. NEAR the women's quarters is the school room for young boys. Here regular teachers instruct in grade and high school subjects after guards have put them through their setting up exercises. There are several score of them, all 17 and under and all of them with criminal records. A motley, friendly crew of mere boys, in jail — a tough lot of gangsters outside of jail. Other floors contain great tiers of cells with large enclosures between each tier, the prisoners graded according to their ages, the older ones being on the lower floors. During the free hours they loaf, read, and play ball. In their cells they eat and wait until the next period of freedom. The most interesting close-up of in dividuals is obtained in the office of Doctor McNamara, jail physician for two score years. He sees them all first hand, as does Warden Fogarty on their admission, but Doctor McNamara sees those that are wounded or disease ridden frequently. THE first patient is a Greek who was badly beaten up. The next is a gawky, gangling Polish youth still with peach fuzs on his chin. The Doctor removes bandages from his left arm and shoulder. He is only seven teen. "Do you know what this bright specimen is here for? Two murders and over 40 stick-ups." The Doctor dis plays two bullet holes in the arm and breast of this youthful murderer stand ing, unabashed, just before us. 'No, sir, only seven stick-ups," the moronic killer corrects proudly. FRITZ BLOCKI. Inquiry Were maidens mermaidens back in the days Of petticoats, corsets and sheet iron stays, When shy debutanties wore twenty ply panties To shelter themselves from the mascu line gase? Were maidens mermaidens waterward bent When every girl's dress was a portable tent, And red flannel teddies were year around steadies And clothing was made out of quilted cement? If such a mermaiden followed the whim Her mother prescribed when she went out to swim And tried to dispose of her numerous clothes — I say, don't you know, what a hickory limb! —PAUL ERNST. €J If one's theories be only absurd enough he is guaranteed immortal ity: look at the Louis who pro claimed "I am the state." 24 THE CHICAGOAN Oral Shorthand The Saga of Eddie Dell, King of Slang EDDIE DELL, uncrowned king of slang, is dead. He "kicked off" the other morning, as he would prefer the fact stated, in a West Side hotel. Inventor of more slang phrases than any other individual, his oral shorthand in general use where English is — or was — spoken, he died alone. Despite the vogue of his unsigned works, he had lived a solitary life. He'd have called his unmarked passing a "black out." Dell was a gray faced, dried up little man with sad eyes. Born in Chicago 55 years ago, he travelled with cir cuses, carnivals and medicine shows, performing at various times as a con tortionist, wire walker, singer and clown. Among his friends may be mentioned George M. Cohan, Fred Stone, John Barrymore, Richard Carle, George Ade, Lou H. Houseman, Will Rogers, Lew Fields, Joe Weber, Pete Daily, George Evans, Drury Under wood, Smiley Corbett, Tom Hauton, Lew Dockstader, William A. Pinker- ton. They loved to have a session with Eddie on occasion, just to hear him talk. Eddie's Boswell and inter preter was the late Dr. James Cun ningham, proprietor of a medicine show, who carried the quaint humorist with him for years for the pleasure of his company. Dell was extremely re ticent before strangers. He used prac tically nothing but slang in his daily conversation and coined new words and phrases without effort as occasion required. Slang was his natural means of expression. In fact he built a language of his his own. It was interesting at times to try to figure out what his talk was all about. Much of the slang he invented was eagerly picked up by writers and the public and spun into the language. Other bits of his slang never became popular. He did not use slang as a pose and never claimed to have origi nated any well known word or phrase, but his friends knew and gave him credit. He always began talking with this expression, "Let me crack to you." It was his way of asking permission to talk to you. He was a great story teller and could convey more in a few words than anybody I ever knew. He was a skillful pantomimist and eloquently used gesture to illustrate his talk. All money to Eddie was "Dough," a dollar was a "Buck," a hundred-dollar bill was a "Century" and a thousand- dollar bill was a "Grand." These words are now used daily by bootleg gers and others, but Eddie Dell used them first. He called a pocketbook a "Poke" and a change purse a "Grouch-Bag." Paper bills were "Frogskins." When he wanted you to stop talking before an unwelcome stranger he would say, "Nix Cracken." He described a heavy overhanging mustache as a "Hair Awn ing." A cane was a "Crutch" and spats were "Vests for the Feet." "Chump" was a favorite word and was used to describe a "Sucker" or anybody he disliked. To eat was to "Scoff." A nose was a "Snits," eyes "Lamps," a person's tongue a "Sting er," hair a "Wig" and ears "Receiv ers." He was the first person I ever heard call cocaine "Snow." He called a bed a "Leaping Tick." Once in telling a story he described a hotel register as an "April Fool Book." A policeman was called "John Law," while a con stable wearing a star conspicuously was an "Oyster Can." Any distance over six blocks he called a "Sleeper Jump." He referred to all song writers as "Mr. Words and Music." Eddie coined the phrase, "A shot of Booze," which still is popular, despite prohibition. He called a clean collar a "First Run Col- dar." Every dog was a "Pooch" and his favorite name for a homeless cur was "Prince." Lawyers were "Mouthpieces." A man with short whiskers had a "Muff" but long whiskers he called a "Flea Bush." To sing was to "Warble," to shoot craps was to "Walts the Bones," to walk was to "Mosey" and to run was to "Take it on the Lam." A vocal ist was always a "Canary." A cigar ette was a "Whiff," a contortionist was a "Snake." All tickets were "Ducats," every train a "Rattler," a trunk a "Keyster" and a valise a "Fluey." A suit of clothes was a "Uni form," a diamond a piece of "Ice," a physician was a "Croaker," a surgeon a "Shiv Artist." Gold coins were "Yel low Boys," teeth were "Dining Room Furniture," a postage stamp was a "Porous Plaster" and a hat was a "Lid." He called a watch a "Turnip"; pea nuts and pop-corn were "Monkey Food." An accident was a "Calamity" and a fight was a "Clem." Fingers were "Hooks." Eddie was the first person I ever heard describe a smart remark as a "Wise Crack.' And so it goes. It would take a huge volume to tell of all of Eddie Dell's slang. I met him at Clark and Randolph one night and asked him if he still was doing a con tortion act. "The old snake he's shed his skin for the last time," said Eddie. That was his way of saying he had quit being a contortionist. The next day he joined a circus as a clown. Once some amateur cracksmen blew a safe on the West side and used so much nitro- glycerine that the money box was blown to bits and the paper money tossed hundreds of feet in the air. Here was the way Eddie told the story: "The boys put too much soap in the gopher and it rained Frogskins all night." _G. c. w. Got all your crops planted?" 'Yep — 25 acres 0' halitosis ads, 14 of 'If You Wore Garters 'Round Your Neck' and the rest in cigarettes." TMECUICAGOAN 25 nvasion T he Redcoats Arrive AMERICA'S shores have been in- l vaded. But there will be no boom of musketry as an accompani ment to this invasion; instead only the crack of the polo ball as it zooms across the green turf of the classic Meadow Brook Club. The vanguard of the invading army landed in New York last week and a distinguished vanguard it was indeed. There was Rosita, a beautiful chest nut mare, formerly the property of the Duke of Westminster; and Lady Changeful, an ebony black; and Mine- ola, a dazzling grey, and Fun I Jung from the stables of the Maharajah of Jodhpur. Tripping lightly down the gangplank after these came some forty others, many nearly as famous and all an inspiration to the horse lover. These equine invaders, you must know, are the mounts for the Army in India team which arrayed against America's four will focus the attention of the polo world and the sports world generally upon the Meadow Brook Club early next September when the International matches will be played. Sometime somewhere there may have been a greater group of equine aristocrats assembled but probably nowhere has there been a more pic turesque one. Each of the polo mounts is direct from India, the birth-land of the galloping game. Each is accom panied by his or her personal escort and groom who is a native of Britain's Eastern dominion. The Indian ponies are stabled at the Westchester-Biltmore Polo Club at Portchester, New York. This rather obscure polo club has suddenly leaped into international pominence and its grounds now present an allur ing picture to the visitor. Punctually at seven in the morning and four in the afternoon Indian horsemen, wear ing the native turban and Jodhpur rid ing clothes, mount their prized charges and ride out onto the turf of the Westchester field. American horse men gaze in astonishment at the dis play of horsemanship that follows. Horses that are packets of spirit and dash become as lambs, gambolling on the green, in' the hands of these master equitationists. Nowhere is there a better illustration of the patience and relentless determination of the Eastern mind than in the training of these polo horses. —SPORTSMAN. "The Oakbrook Polo Club has been the center of unusual polo ac tivity during the past month. In formal events at Oakbrook the Oak- brook Four Horsemen have so far shown to best advantage. One vic tory, scored over the Wanderers by 8 goals to 7, was as exciting as Chi cago has yet seen." — POLO Maga- Transit Note Not Advocating Anything MY friend and I bet. We bet on many things, always, doubtless, in violation of some law. Neverthe less, being of an illegal turn of mind, we wager on things. And since we both use the same "L" station morn ings and often meet going home nights, we have become habitual gamblers on what station or stations our train is going to stop. Now, that, as all know, is a hazard. Who can guess what station an "L" train, at least on the North Side, will favor with a pause? Still — and isn't this the Essence of Life wherever Life is to be Met? It does help one out to be SMART. I had lost, I think it was $21, on Belmont Avenue. For the life of me I couldn't accumulate enough confidence in those 6 o'clock Howard Street trains to reject my friend's wager of from three to five bucks that this train would stop there. They — each one for sev eral days — stopped! Result: I was out of pocket. Well, I began looking for tips. I began, in point, to read the papers. Days passed. I lost eleven dollars more — only two on Wilson, but nine berries on Belmont! Now, I am not wealthy. And so I searched my news paper more and more zealously, perhaps more and more desperately. PAUL BUTLER A WEEK, I think, passed. Came a Saturday afternoon when I was riding home with my friend. I only smiled when, as we passed North Ave nue, he said, "Bet you seven old fellow, on Belmont!" "Nope," I replied. "Belmont's got me almost broke now. But," I added briskly, "I'll tell you what I will do. I'll bet you twenty-five on Addison." "Addison!" he stared. "Addison," I repeated as soberly as possible. "Why, this is a Howard Street ex press! You crazy?" "Perhaps not," I countered modestly. "Well," said my friend, "if you don't care, I don't. I will take the bet." We shook hands. The track is crooked, but I firmly believe it was my heart that leaped and lurched. Oh, how slowly the backyards flew by! Came Fullerton. No stop! Belmont. No stop! Great Heavens! Then suddenly we switched on to a local track — and the train quivered to a stop at Addison! At Sheridan Road I still was laugh ing, recovering not until we reached Wilson. It was there I exposed to my friend the source of my wisdom. My newspaper — my newspaper had told me that the Cubs were in town! —GEORGE SCHUTZ. 26 "TmCMICAGOAN Night Life in the Nineties As a Well-Known Champion Might Write It CHICAGO — the word spelled magic and mystery to the Boy. Chicago, where people rode in horse- cars and cable-cars and even in cabs (horse-cabs, of course), where there was a show every night in the week and people on the streets all night long. A wicked place, too, full of terrible creatures called pickpockets and wicked smooth-tongued men who would just as soon as not sell a poor unsuspecting farmer his choice of a goldbrick or the Masonic Temple. Oh, a fellow had to be on his guard there, all right! And the WORLD'S FAIR! What a firmament of glamour those two words represented. The Boy's grand mother had told him. His mother had been there, also, but his grand mother was more reminiscent. The awful, fascinating crowds, how visitors had slept on the floor and been glad of a chance to sleep on the floor. It was unimaginable, breath-taking. The Boy could not picture it; he could only dream — Some day, he would go to Chicago. The thought frightened him, but he would not admit it. He would go and take a chance on, those terrible pickpockets and goldbrick men. He would have to be careful — careful even of strangers on the train — And then, one day, the Boy's father had taken him to Chicago. He was glad he was going with his father. His father implied safety. His father knew all about pickpockets and knew a goldbrick when he saw one. His father did not strike up acquaintance with strangers. THE Boy was struck with fear when he got off at the Polk Street Station. It -was the biggest station he had ever seen (down in the country, they called it dee-po). The crowds. It was just as his grand mother had told him, only worse. He clung to his father's hand. They went to the Saratoga hotel. It was a grand place, at least six stories high. Down home, there was one three-story building which every body always said would topple over some day. They had a wonderful supper in the big diningroom, where people ate at little tables, instead of at one big one. It was funny, but on the big bill of fare it said "Dinner." That must have been a mistake, or else they couldn't afford a separate bill of fare for supper. At the end of the meal, they had mince pie with brandy sauce. The Boy himself ordered that. His father frowned and shook his head reprov ingly. When they got up to leave, the Boy was surprised to find he could walk without staggering. Then they went to a show. It was Way Down East at an opera-house — they called them theatres here — named McVickers. The show was a cracker- jack. Real snow and every thing. The Boy nearly laughed him self sick when the hired man came in the kitchen with a pile of wood in his arms and slipped and fell and spilled the wood all over the floor. After the show, they went some place, down underground, and had an oyster stew. It was the first oyster stew the Boy had ever had. Golly, but it was good! The Boy sighed from ambition fulfilled. This was what he had read about: Night life in a big city. He was so excited and there was so much noise from the cars in the street down below that he could hardly sleep that night. THE next day, they went to see the Masonic Temple and the Montgomery Ward Tower. Both were wonderful. The Masonic Tem ple was nineteen stories high, and you had to pay twenty-five cents to go up on the roof, and up there, there was a man with a telescope who let you look through it for a dime. You could see way out on the lake. The Montgomery Ward Tower was even grander. The Boy stepped out on the iron grating, looked down at the people and horses, who were tiny specks in the street, and turned pale. He had a funny feeling around his stomach and was glad his father was there to pull him back. They told him it was the second highest point in the United States. But the most hair-raising experience of all was yet to come. His father took him into a saloon — a real saloon. On business, of course, for his father belonged to the Loyal Temperance Legion and his mother was a member of the W. C. T. U. The Boy was thrilled, but horrified. As they left, he felt degraded. He felt that there was a stain on him. He was branded. Should he ever be able to live it down, to forget that he had been in a saloon? He feared not. He blamed his father, but did not say anything. When he got home, his mother kissed him. He was more ashamed than ever. He had polluted his own mother by kissing her, he who had eaten brandy sauce with his mince pie and who had been in a real saloon. He blushed scarlet and ran out in the kitchen under pretence of getting a drink of water. At the hydrant stood his father, drinking something from a bottle. His father put the bottle away quickly, but not before the boy had caught a glimpse of the picture on it. It was a picture of a crow, flapping its wings. — SHERWOOD H. Thepsis ALKING down Michigan Ave nue the other day, I met an actor now playing to a public not not ably enthusiastic. "Well," I said, "how's the show going?" "The show is great," answered the actor; "but we've had terrible houses." A. R. G. TI4ECI4ICAGOAN 27 Be Slim And Let Who Will Be Ha£fiy FOR practical psychology, study the artists who mold the female form. The utmost in high-power salesmanship confers only a kinder- garden degree toward a doctorate in the profession which eradicates hips and erases double chins. The wiles of Circe, the craft of Machiavelli, the magic of Houdini unite to make up the men and women whose philoso pher's stone is the word, "reduce." It turns time to gold with absolute cer tainty. There are dozens of these practical scientists in Chicago. Some have methods charming and painless. Others make the skilled tormentors of the Inquisition mere amateurs. If the circular which the attendant hands you reads "electric horse, garden roller, rowing machine, percussion spray," beware! After an invigorating gallop on an electric charger, you will be dusted off with a fire-hose, pounded by a brutal Nordic, and then tossed upon the outside pavement to walk it off. If your muscles are of India rubber, and your spirit is dauntless, this is your method. Systematic training for muscle sense is under the direction of an ex-pugilist who knows his air-cushions. Here you must exercise, but refined torture is omitted. Baths are refreshing. You are lead gently up toward grace. IF your pocket-book is plethoric and you long to bathe in milk, to be massaged with cream and honey, to have your face lifted and your shoulders shaped, it isn't necessary to go to Paris. Your wallet can be lightened and your smile lifted on Michigan Boulevard. Prepare to give many hours each day and at least a thousand dollars to the presiding goddess of the temple of beauty which scorns plebian advertising. Do you like to ride in the park? If you do, you can reduce the bumps by bumping along the bridle-paths with a professor who will guarantee to make you slim if you ride with him and let him censor your calories. Perhaps the most pleasant and the most ruly scientific method of chang ing your shape from the sofa-pillow- form to the lathe-form is by means of a salt-free diet. There isn't time to re port fully on this excellent system. The author has an appointment with the salt-free medic in half an hour. —MABEL S. OPPENHEIM. 7#e ST A G E Note Inscribed on a Suitable Occasion New York, July 14. BASTILLE DAY— July 14th. Which reminds us that twelve theatre ticket agencies in this merry metropolis have recently been indicted for bilking the gullible public. So theatre goers may yet experience the sharp pleasure of viewing a procession of ticket-scalp ers standing in line (for the first time in their lives) waiting to be marched off, in clanking irons, to the bastille. That would indeed be a racy spectacle! This is the time of year when, ac cording to the calendar, popular inter est in the theatre is supposed to be as flat as a week-old seidlitz powder, but from where we sit it appears that Mr. and Mrs. New York, as well as the out- of-town cousins, are taking themselves to the playhouses quite as frequently as they did in winter. The solid suc cesses are still thriving, and most of them will carry on into August. A goodly share of this summer business may be traced to the gracious behavior of the thermometer, and also, in "dram atic" productions, to the new readjust ment of matinees, and the abolition of Saturday performances. Having dis covered that Mr. and Mrs. New York, even though they may not dwell in the country during the electric fan months, are wont to hie themselves out of town each week-end, Miss Ethel Barrymore, a few weeks ago, shrewdly decided to cut all Saturday performances of her play and add two extra matinees. In consequence Miss Barrymore and Som erset Maugham's comedy, The Con' stant Wife, may be seen each evening in the week except Saturday, and every afternoon except Monday, Friday and Saturday. This system proved such a boon to the box office, which was suf fering below-the-belt wallops with each week-end exodus from the city, several other "dramatic" productions were quick to follow suit. Those entertain ments that offer music with their jokes, however, continue to fling wide the portals on Saturdays, as usual. \A/E have been for a long time in- terested in the ancient contro versy concerning "the original New York cast," so often absent from the Chicago stage. There are several rea sons why plays which flourish in New York make the great trek westward to our frontier without carrying all the original actors in the covered wagon. The most obvious explanation is that the management, being chary of "the road" and none too sure what the citi zenry of Cleveland, Detroit and Chi cago will do in the matter of paying for their own tickets, substitutes second- string actors, by way of clipping the lengthy expense-sheet. That is the wail most often raised by dramatic critics west of New Jersey, who feel that their section of the hinterland is being de prived of such high acting art as may be witnessed along Forty-fourth Street, under the bright lights. And there is something to be said on that score. But it has all been said — and many times. The other conspicuous reason for seventy-five dollar actors playing four- hundred dollar parts in Cleveland, De troit and Chicago is that many of the adopted sons and daughters of poor old Thespis, having worked themselves up from the Port Arthur, Texas, repertory company, are reluctant to quit the shady lanes of Manhattan. For example, Miss Gertrude Lawrence has flatly refused to appear in Oh, Kay on tour next sea son, and takes flight to London, there to skip Mr. Gershwin's gay measures and carol his indigo notes. Miss Lawrence, nevertheless, is scarcely to be blamed, since London is her home and the scene of her early successes. When Mr. Holbrook Blinn loads the scenery and properties of The Play's the Thing aboard the freight cars next September, he will be minus the services of that able actor, Mr. Reginald Owen. The reason being, so it is alleged, that Mr. Blinn's management is not eager to foot the bill for Mr. Owen's expen sive services. And filling Mr. Owen's boots will be no small feat (if you will pardon a pun), so excellent is his per formance in the sprightly Molnar com edy. On the other hand (as the mani cure damsels say), there is the case of Miss Ethel Barrymore, under the same management as Mr. Blinn Until last week Miss Barrymore was not assured that her supporting company would take to the road, intact. Yet from all the signs and portents next season will bring a bright array of this and that to keep the lights burn ing over Chicago's theatres. —GENE MARKEY. 28 THE CHICAGOAN MU/ICAL NOTE/ After Ravinia, There Is Lofiez FACED with the honorable task of reviewing the season at Ravinia for this aware publication, we hasten to announce that, while we consider opera amusing to write about, we have gone completely high-brow and deem it, in general, pretty poor stuff. We confess an unshakeable preference for the Brahms Third over Manon, The Afternoon of a Faun over Rigoletto, and The Rhapsody in Blue over all of Puccini's stickcandies. Our attendance at the opera is based largely on the vague hope that prompts us to go to the movies. There's always a chance to see something good, and we want to be in on it. Of course there is the matter of good singing per se. The collection of war blers in Mr. Eckstein's gaudy menag erie is, without question, of the highest quality. A company with Rethberg, Bori, Johnson and Martinelli can scarcely fail to stir even the most lethar gic Keniiworthy from his wonted calm. But, for ourselves, we place, perhaps, an unfortunate emphasis on the music, the spawn of the composer's brain. And it is a truism that most music written for the operatic stage is preten tious bombast. Witness for a moment the startling array of genius that is re sponsible for the Ravinia repertoire- Gounod, who, as musical dictator of Paris, persecuted the great Franck; Verdi, who entertained three genera tions, but penned nothing of conse quence until Falstaff; Puccini and Mas senet, pompous purveyors of piffle. THE credo above is launched in self- defense. It will break down be fore the summer is over before the be guiling magic of Ravinia itself. One sits outside under the maples trying to concentrate at the same time upon a yellow moon and the lovely Bori. One puffs langorously at a cigarette listen ing the while to that great sturdy voice of Martinelli. And, as a result, as the middle of August nears, ordinary (and perhaps valid) canons of criticism have suffered the most frightful ravages. SUBSEQUENT week-ends at Ra vinia prove that the company is in splendid fettle and prepared for the season. We missed the opening, but heard Johnson, Rothier, Bori, Mojica et al in Romeo and Juliet on Sunday, June 26. It is to be observed that little music of any worth or significance has had a Shakespearean genesis. Notice the long list: Hamlet of Thomas; Strauss's Mac beth, probably the trashiest of his sym phonic poems; the diluted Midsummer light's Dream of Mendelssohn; the operas of Tschaikowsky and Gounod based on the long-standing scrap be tween the Capulets and the Monta gues; and a thousand and one over tures, and tone poems long since thrown into the dust-bin. Probably the only genuine exception is Verdi's Fal staff, a most felicitous musical embodi ment of the fat old knight. About the best that can be said of Gounod's Romeo is that there are some juicy spots in it for the opulent voices on Mr. Eckstein's pay-roll, and above banal operatic orchestration there hov ers a feast of good singing for the ladies and gentlemen out front. John son, a handsome swash-buckler, poured mellowly out his love to Bori on the balcony. And they looked so grand to gether that we prayed silently for a production of Pelleas later in the sea son. Rothier, as the old priest, con tributed a dignified characterization and was in excellent voice. A fine artist who seems to improve with the years. Mention might be made of Mo jica, and the veteran Defrere, both good in smaller roles. The stage fight in the second act, superimposed upon some shivering movie-music, was optically the most exciting incident of the eve ning. Here were the ancestors of Mus solini, Marconi and Scar Face Al doing their level best with incisive, if anti quated, instruments of warfare. Mojica was the only serious casualty. A IDA, on Saturday, July 2nd, pro duced another brace of warblers, notably Martinelli and Rethberg. Of the opera itself it need only be said that it is responsible for our most fa mous Victrola record; of Martinelli, that if he has not inherited the mantle of Caruso, he must have got the rest of his wardrobe; and of Rethberg, that she sings Verdi with the Ravinia band as well as she did Wolf at Orchestra Hall, which means that she has a very beautiful voice, indeed. The Amneris of Clawssen's was scarcely as good as the other two angles in the triangle. Her singing was marred in part by a disturbing tremolo and she is too good an actress to be successful in so monot onous a part. THE HONORABLE VINCENT LOPEZ has just closed a long and successful engagement at the Con gress in the Balloon Room, and, doubt less, he left behind him myriads of sat isfied clients. We heard him for the first time on the last night of his en gagement. Sophie Tucker was there, broad across the beam and heartily in formative in song anent a gentleman who "was so nice, I wish he delivered ice." In spite of her guest appearance, however, the M. Lopez managed to dominate the festivities. With an aplomb and a genteel frigidity alto gether unlike the genial expansiveness of Whiteman, he turns his brunette visage toward his band and wheedles forth some pretty seductive music. There is little boisterousness. When a husky whiskey tenor bawls a "do-de- do-do-do" song through a megaphone you feel that Lopez is disturbing his usually dignified ensemble only because some of the low customers like it. I HAVE a feeling that his entire band was not commandeered for the western invasion. Lopez, Inc., is a stock listed on the New York Curb. There must be many more of his musicians abandoned temporarily in the streets of Gotham. Probably for this reason he did not make as much of his orchestra tions as he might have. It struck me that the theme of By the Waters of Minneton\a was hardly of enough stuff to qualify as the body of an evening's dance entertainment. Lopez's chef d'oeuvre for the time being is a complicated arrangement of Just Li\e a Butterfly, a new sob song treating with beautiful insects caught out in the wet. The words are the usual tosh, but the tune is a humdinger, fashioned from a rising motif in quick step, followed by an involved variant that actually swoops down at you. The orchestration was up to Ferdie Grofe. For all we know he did it. — ROBERT POLLAK. TWEO4ICAG0AN 29 7%e CI Ventilation and , IT does not do to attack ventilation. The propaganda has been too over whelmingly successful. To champion the cause of mere comfort, even on grounds of service to the intellect, or in the name of commercial fair play, is to risk a visit from a robust investi gator for the Health Department if not a committee from the Chicago Exhibitors Association. Enough, then, to explain the relation of air cooled auditoriums to the present pronounced lack of good pictures and state plainly in advance that fingers of both hands are crossed. You see, people simply will go into these scientifically cooled (and adver tised) theatres whether or no. It is a matter of record that theatres of this class yield their largest profit in July. Steering by this compass, the manage ment economically places on exhibition those pictures considered not quite up to box office periods of sterner demand and goes golfing. Golfing done, mar ket odds and ends disposed of, return to standard takes place late in August and again there are attractions about which one engaged in writing about pictures may write. At this time this one is quite without subject matter and the allotted page must be filled with things like this. STILL, crediting the printed evi dence, none of the space writers are happy. The week this is typed, most of them are filling their spaces with articles about motion pictures. The amusement in this is compensa tion of a sort, and the temptation to dip over likewise into unfamiliar fields is not slight. It will be suppressed, do not fear, but it is not unappreciated. Indeed, the mechanically perfect Mencken's analysis of pictures under date of July 3 is compensation for all the screen trash vainly viewed in hope of garnering a recommendation for the purposes of this issue. Space being plentiful, due to stated NEMA ssociated Topics causes, it may as well be admitted that Mr. Mencken had enjoyed a consider able eminence in the present per spective. Perhaps not for profundity, possibly not for originality, but cer tainly for workmanship, sustained atti tude, persistency of pose or poise as the case may be. His more con veniently accessible comments have been regarded as a fixed feature of this department's Sabbath. Then he wrote, alongside the unparalleled Mae Tinee and not so differently, an article he called The Movies. Now everyone knew that Mr. Mencken had gone to Hollywood (of all places to learn about pictures!) on the occasion of a somewhat extended vacation several months ago. Not much was made of Mr. Mencken, if it must be confessed, in that highly Rotarian community. For reasons no one seems quite to understand, he didn't get what are known as the breaks. In all likelihood the simple citizens of the toy town were a bit afraid of the penning it was logical to believe would be forthcoming in due season. Whatever the facts, Mencken withheld his pronouncia- mento (no doubt sustaining Holly wood magazine sales) until the date given. The static you thought you heard on the Atwater-Kent that night was a suppressed snicker. IN the parlance of the Hollywood publicists, the selfstyled Wampas, the Mencken thesis is Old Number 9. It is a favorite with the older press men, who have it in a dozen or more versions and stand prepared to phrase it in as many more upon request. It has saved more delicate situations, per haps, than any other device distributed to the country dailies in the brief but active career of the fillums. It always begins with a terrific attack upon pic tures as they are. This tone is sus tained for as long as the case warrants, then a word or two about obvious possibilities of the available mecha nisms prepares the way for a swift switch to confident prediction and the case is won. Prepared editorials hung upon this design and jimmied into county dailies by local theatre owners have kept even Mencken's cherished Ten nessee free of censorship, have side tracked legislation to ban Sunday exhibitions in innumerable localities and have routed incipient submission on countless far flung outposts of bellig erent reform. However, it is not for his use of the old familiar formula that Mencken will be discussed in Hollywood. He will be liked for that, or at least his intentions will be respected. The line that the picture people will cherish is the one in which he states that he has seen no pictures recently but has read many scenarios. No one having read a scenario voluntarily and without ap plication of cudgel these many years, that line may even land him a job. — w. R. WEAVER. Cityscape Containing a Suggestion CHICAGO'S public Avenues of Art are in decline. At the present rate of contraction, motorists soon will be forced to endure the ride from Chicago avenue to Devon without ©ne heroic plate of pancakes or flowing bowl of Biscuitina Cereal to sustain interest in the aesthetic. Exhibits are disappearing in alarming succession. With the mushrooming of apart ment hotels crowding out the bill boards, advertisers are inspecting with reflective eye the space possibilities of boulevard concrete. If each turn of the wheels could be made to ap prise passengers of what's new in the factories of Oshkosh and Youngs- town — but the plan has its drawbacks. Therefore — while we still know that When It Rains It Pours, that Four Out of Five Have It and that Buick Is Going to Build a Better One — it is gratuitously suggested that a store house not unlike the Art Institute save, possibly, in possession of bigger and more colorful lions, be erected for the display of these canvasses. And perhaps such a display would even warrant a full six-day admission sched ule. —ANGELA BOONE. 30 Book/- And Another Lindbergh Record A MOTOR trip through the wine country of France at vintage time is the theme of G. B. Stern's new book "Bouquet," (Alfred A. Knopf), which is a travel story such as only novelists seem to know how to write, or indeed to live before beginning to write. One night in chapter four was spent at the drowsy little town in the Al- pilles of which Ford Madox Ford is believed to have been thinking when he wrote "On Heaven." But for that matter the whole tour seems to have been through heaven, the sort of heaven that good Mohammedans ex pect to go to. A region where poulet en cocotte is as much a commonplace as boiled mutton in England — mush rooms, truffles, carrots, artichokes and all, and where cepees bordelais and partridge are so everyday a matter that your landlord says "only" in referring to them, even as your peasant wife says only in referring to the poulet. It is a gourmandise tour such as Brillat Savarin himself might have ap proved, the discussion of food and wines being pleasantly technical. BUT France isn't the only country where one might make a wine tour. In "Wine and Wine Lands of the World," (Brentano's) , Frank Hedges Butler visits all the famous winelands of Europe from Port to Samian, takes in the wines of Aus tralia and South Africa, of Kashmir, Japan, and the South Sea Islands, and not to slight the British archipelago considers such related beverages as are fermented and distilled in England and Scotland. The Americas, however, baffle him. Argentine and Chile, to be sure, have their wines, and the West Indies at least have rum and bacardi, but when it comes to the U. S. A., the ice-cream soda and drug store gin seem equally to defy in clusion. At the moment of course one ought really to be talking about new books of a more immediate type, such things as "Pike, Pickerel and Muskalonge," by Alfred C. Weed, assistant curator of fishes in the Field Museum of Natural History. This seasonable title is Zoology Leaflet number 9, a Field Museum publication. "Swimming Scientifically Taught," by Frank Eugen Dalton, in its seventh edition, com pletely revised (Funk and Wagnalls) is another of the week's new books. Likewise "Birds of the Pacific States," by Ralph Hoffman, with many illus trations in color and otherwise by Major Allan Brooks (Houghton Mif flin.) "^HARLES LINDBERGH: His V-^ Life," by Dale Van Every and Morris De Haven Tracy (Appleton) is said to have set a record, if not in book writing, at least in book publish ing. From the receipt of the copy to the book's leaving the presses ready for shipment, is said to have been a matter of only 72 hours. The material was collected by the news organiza tion of the United Press Associations, and as here written up constitutes a compendium of everything that you may have read in the newspapers, to gether with more new material than TI4ECI4ICAGOAN you would think gettable about a per- son only twenty-five years old. Throughout the Appleton volume the authors tell their story from the sidelines, and more than once express the universal curiosity of non-aviators as to what such adventures can have felt like to the person experiencing them. What they did feel like ought to be revealed to us almost any day now, for Putnam's too are rushing a Lindbergh item through the press, his autobiography. —SUSAN WILBUR. Study With Melodic Counterpoint LA DAME DISTINGUE, the boys -/ at our table had dubbed her. Each night since the opening of the Club Bagdad she had attracted notice and evoked no little comment. She didn't smoke. Her cool repose, under ill-con cealed scrutiny, was noticeably Euro' pean — continental. One of the stu dents in our group insisted that she be the new instructor in counterpoint at N. U. ; another had seen her in the cor ridors of the Sorbonne. Just above her corsage she wore a Phi Delt pin — and she ordered lemonade. ? We had cut through Harper in time to watch the Recessional pass in monas' tic file through the Bond cloister. "Bring forth the royal diadem." We pricked up our ears as a familiarly rich contralto joined in the chant. La Dame Distingue! As soon as drab decency would al low, we followed into Swift Hall to catch, if might be, a glimpse of the modern Thais. Milling around in the lounge, we fingered volumes; pretended to study in detail the oil visages of passe scholars. No appearance. We sat down at the Conover and instinct ively ran through Schubert's Ave Maria. Somehow that upturned face in the cloister suggested the lines — "What melting voice attends the strings? 'Tis Ellen or an angel, sings." Both of them paused just outside the door. They reminded one of models for John Held, Jr., or at best Boris Riedel. "Come on, dearie," drawled La Dame Distingue, "gimme a drag off your Not-A-Cough. Let's dip before the patriarch bursts out ¦with Silver Threads. Gotta date t'night?" Certificate of Awareness I AM aware ; I DO know what you mean ; I DIDN'T look up at Hold 'Em Joe. "J WILL" — whatever that may involve — and I MUST have my fortnightly copy of The Chicagoan brought to me regularly by my own distinctly recondite postman at your ridiculously plebeian price of $3 for 26 issues. (Signed) (Address) TMC CHICAGOAN 31 i IT'S WHAT THE YOUNGER CROWD THINKS ABOUT IT! T OW the whole world talks the language of this younger generation, follows their fashions, plays their flashing games— and obviously takes their opinion on tobacco matters very seriously, for the younger set's most favored brand is the largest selling quality cigarette in the world! M A What a whale of a difference just a few cents make! Originals The Ticket Broker IT is a long look backward from the polished counter of the modern ticket broker with his palatial offices, haughty girl assistants, private tele phone exchanges, monthly charge ac counts and imported motor cars to Joe Abrahams, Chicago's pioneer in that particular line. Joe operated around Randolph and Clark streets 2? years ago and died broke. Joe was no fashion plate. The last thing it occurred to him to buy was clothes. But Joe was satisfied to get 25 cents advance on the price of his theatre tickets, except on the Sunday night opening of some big attraction like Weber and Fields, Richard Mans field, Nat Goodwin, Dockstader, Prim rose and West's Minstrels or the Great Hermann, when he would tilt the price 50 cents over the box office scale. Joe had a few regular customers, but for the most part he stood in front of the theatre which seemed to offer the best prospects and peddled his wares under the time honored rule of first come first served. He was nearly always at war with the theatre managers. They used to drive him away from in front of their houses and often had him ar rested, but the police and magistrates knew Joe and always turned him loose. Joe came from "a long-tailed fam ily," as politicians express it. He had fifty or more relatives and he used them to buy seats for him at the box offices. In this way he was always able to obtain a full supply of the choicest seats. Joe was a congenial spirit and was a personal friend of many of the stars of the day. Many a prominent actor in the old days was not above borrowing money from Joe on occasions and Joe, when necessary, insisted that his stage friend use his influence in getting him seats at the box office. Joe made lots of money but spent it all. He was not a good business man and his system was faulty. After a hard night Joe would stay in bed a couple of days and then come out and sell Monday's tickets for Tuesday. The climax was reached, however, one night when he sold a honeymoon couple from Kankakee a pair of seats that were not mates. One was in the front row downstairs and the other in the last row of the balcony. —v. R. The_Mail Letters of general interest to Chi' cagoans will be published when signed with full name and address. Many Live There Editor, The Chicagoan: Many in considering the city of Chi cago are slow in passing out words of commendation for that part of Chi cago known as the West Side. In spite of the fact that it is the least adver tised part of the city it is the land of the superlative; even the name contains the most common suffix used in cre ating superlatives. The W-est Side. Merely that it is the largest in popula tion among the geographical divisions of Chicago is not enough; it craves world wide distinction in its products, as is witnessed by its group of world's largests. They comprise a store, a Chi nese cafe, a ballroom, and a theatre or gan. Coining closer to home we find America's largest conservatory and in matters of purely local concern there are the largest theatre, the greatest amount of 'L lines, the largest electric power plant and others that escape im mediate attention. And another thing, it possesses the greatest amount of hot air per capita, which, since that day when we exchanged our hammers for horns, is more of an asset than a lia- 32 TI4E CHICAGOAN Where Fine Cigars Are Smoked Tom Palmer Predominates Wengler & Mandell, Inc. Chicago - Tampa bility. — R. Echelle, 4210 West End Avenue. Tut Tut Editor, The Chicagoan: Having noted the care with which you amass information useful to seek ers of diversion, getting even the phone numbers correct and street locations near enough, I hazard the suggestion that you add to your guide a reason ably legible road map for those of us who know not all the variations of Open Sesame in effect hereabouts. I mean, of course, the non-poisonous places. I have not quite figured it out, but it seems to me that a service of this kind could be developed. I am certain many would appreciate it. — H. B. CTDonnell, 7734 Stony Island Ave nue. Sit Tight Editor, The Chicagoan: I have read several copies of your magazine and note your apparent in tention to get at the bottom of things pertaining to the city and citizens thereof. I may say that your writers seem to be possessed of what the rougher element terms "an in" and for this reason I submit a topic of especial interest to this section of town, a rather important one. Like a good many others who have pioneered South Shore, I should like to know when if ever and along what route the Jackson Park branch of the Elevated is to be extended South. I have been effectively convinced, in turn, that it simply must go out Stony Island to 93 rd, that it is definitely set to follow Jeffery, and that it already has control of the old B. & O. right of way which is perfect for the purpose. Meanwhile, the terminal remains where they placed it for the World's Fair and owners of property along the several named routes postpone profit-taking or worse. It's all very nerve-wrecking and something ought to be done about it.— F. E. Jensen, 1755 East 69th Street. Fame Editor, The Chicagoan: Newspapers here are billing your new Chief of Police as saying "Crime Record Is Good." Good, hell, it's perfect. — G. Kearins, Carnegie Hall, New York, N. Y. •I A democrat is a common fellow, and glad of it; an aristocrat is a common fellow, unhappily convinced of the fact. The Opera Club may be obtained, with or without cuisine service, on afternoons or evenings, for Private Dances, Teas and Banquets, with the exception of Wednesday and Saturday Nights. By reason of its ten years of service to many of Chi cago's Smartest Social Func tions the Opera Club is the accepted place for affairs necessitating excellence of service and appointments. 18 West Walton Place Tel. Superior 6907 ®$m* The Resort of Fashion and the Epicure 18 W.Walton Place Opera Club Building For Reservations Phone Delaware 2592 Luncheon Dinner You are cordially invited to visit the STEGER Store and inspect the New Orthophonic Victrola in Electrola and Radiola Combinations exclusively — and the automatic Orthophonic Victrola, the phonograph that changes its own records. Terms to suit your convenience ======== STEGER & SONS Piano Manufacturing Company Founded by John V. Steger, 1879 STEGER Building Northwest Corner Wabash and Jackson You zvill enjoy hearing the latest VICTOR RECORDS Telephone— HARRISON 1656 mmmmmnm L UCKY STRIKES are mild and mellow —the finest cigarettes you ever smoked. They are kind to your throat. Why? All because they are made of the finest Turkish and domestic tobaccos, properly aged and blended with great skill, and there is an extra process in treating the tobacco. ** It's toasted. Your Throat Protection 9* IIHIMU.I