roper place.
Birds belong in trees. I don't go twittering and fluffing about in oaks
and chestnuts, perching on the birds' nest steps and getting in their
way. And why should some swarthy robin, be she never so matronly, swear
at me if I set foot on my own front porch?

A MESSAGE FOR BOONVILLE

When corncob pipes went up from a nickel to six cents, smoking
traditions tottered. That was a year or more ago, but one can still
recall the indignation written on the faces of nicotine-soaked gaffers
who had been buying cobs at a jitney ever since Washington used one to
keep warm at Valley Forge. It was the supreme test of our determination
to win the war: the price of Missouri meerschaums went up 20 per cent
and there was no insurrection.

Yesterday we went out to buy our annual corncob, and were agreeably
surprised to learn that the price is still six cents; but our friend the
tobacconist said that it may go up again soon. We took the treasure,
gleaming yellow with fresh varnish, back to our kennel, and we are
smoking it as we set down these words. A corncob is sadly hot and raw
until it is well sooted, but the ultimate flavor is worth persecution.

The corncob pipes we always buy come from Boonville, Mo., and we don't
see why we shouldn't blow a little whiff of affection and gratitude
toward that excellent town. Moreover, Boonville celebrated its
centennial recently: it was founded in 1818. If the map is to be
believed, it is on the southern bank of the Missouri River, which is
there spanned by a very fine bridge; it is reached by two railroads
(Missouri Pacific and M., K. and T.) and stands on a bluff 100 feet
above the water. According to the two works of reference nearest to our
desk, its population is either 4252 or 4377. Perhaps the former census
omits the 125 men of the town who are so benighted as to smoke briars or
clays.

Delightful town of Boonville, seat of Cooper County, you are well named.
How great a boon you have conferred upon a troubled world! Long after
more ambitious towns have faded in the memory of man your quiet and
soothing gift to humanity will make your name blessed. I like to imagine
your shady streets, drowsing in the summer sun, and the rural
philosophers sitting on the verandas of your hotels or on the benches of
Harley Park ("comprising fifteen acres"--New International
Encyclopedia), looking out across the brown river and puffing clouds of
sweet gray reek. Down by the livery stabl