't be eaten; upon
giraffes whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that
the Boob is Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the
rest?

A BRIEF MAXIM

Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead.

IN CONCLUSION

But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob with the Poor Fish. The Poor
Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob gone wrong. The
Poor Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an
angel, would think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The
Poor Fish is Why Boobs Leave Home.

II. SIMPLIFICATION

_Dear Sir--How can life be simplified? In the office where I work
the pressure of affairs is very exacting. Often I do not have a
moment to think over my own affairs before 4 p.m. There are a great
many matters that puzzle me, and I am afraid that if I go on working
so hard the sweetest hours of my youth may pass before I have given
them proper consideration. It is very irassible. Can you help me?_

CYNTHIA.

SALUTATION TO CYNTHIA

Cynthia, my child: How are you? It is very delightful to hear from you
again. During the recent months I have been very lonely indeed without
your comradeship and counsel with regard to the great matters which were
under consideration.

THINKING IT OVER

Well, Cynthia, when your inquiry reached me I propped my feet on the
desk, got out the corncob pipe and thought things over. How to simplify
life? How, indeed! It is a subject that interests me strangely. Of
course, the easiest method is to let one's ancestors do it for one. If
you have been lucky enough to choose a simple-minded, quiet-natured
quartet of grandparents, frugal, thrifty and foresighted, who had the
good sense to buy property in an improving neighborhood and keep their
money compounding at a fair rate of interest, the problem is greatly
clarified. If they have hung on to the old farmstead, with its
huckleberry pasture and cowbells tankling homeward at sunset and a
bright brown brook cascading down over ledges of rock into a swimming
hole, then again your problem has possible solutions. Just go out to the
farm, with a copy of Matthew Arnold's "Scholar Gipsy" (you remember the
poem, in which he praises the guy who had sense enough to leave town and
live in the suburbs where the Bolsheviki wouldn't bother him), and don't
leave any forwarding address with the postoffice. But if, as I fear from
an examination of your pink-