THE claim of this country to call itself "The Land of the Free" must be
held in abeyance until every man in it, whether he belongs or does not
belong to a labor organization, shall have the right to work for his
daily bread.
THERE is a strain of primitive poetry running through the entire Irish
race, a fleeting lyrical emotion which expresses itself in a flash,
usually in connection with love of country and kindred across the sea.
I had a touching illustration of it the other morning. The despot who
reigns over our kitchen was gathering a mess of dandelions on the rear
lawn. It was one of those blue and gold days which seem especially to
belong New England. "It's in County Westmeath I 'd be this day," she
said, looking up at me. _"I'd go cool my hands in the grass on my ould
mother's grave in the bit of churchyard foreninst the priest's house at
Mullingar."_ I have seen poorer poetry than that in the magazines.
SPEAKING of the late Major Pond, the well-known director of a lecture
bureau, an old client of his remarked: "He was a most capable manager,
but it always made me a little sore to have him deduct twenty-five
per cent.
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