g Sun_
comes from the press. There is no man quicker to bonnet a fallacy or
drop the acid just where it will disinfect. For instance, this comment
on some bolshevictory in Russia:

A kind word was recently seen, on one of the principal streets of
Petrograd, attempting to butter a parsnip.

For the plain man who shies at surplice and stole, the Sun Dial is a
very real pulpit, whence, amid excellent banter, he hears much that is
purging and cathartic in a high degree. The laughter of fat men is a
ringing noble music, and Don Marquis, like Friar Tuck, deals texts and
fisticuffs impartially. What an archbishop of Canterbury he would have
made! He is a burly and bonny dominie, and his congregation rarely miss
the point of the sermon. We cannot close better than by quoting part of
his Colyumist's Prayer in which he admits us somewhere near the pulse of
the machine:

I pray Thee, make my colyum read,
And give me thus my daily bread.
Endow me, if Thou grant me wit,
Likewise with sense to mellow it.
Save me from feeling so much hate
My food will not assimilate;
Open mine eyes that I may see
Thy world with more of charity,
And lesson me in good intents
And make me friend of innocence ...
Make me (sometimes at least) discreet;
Help me to hide my self-conceit,
And give me courage now and then
To be as dull as are most men.
And give me readers quick to see
When I am satirizing Me....
Grant that my virtues may atone
For some small vices of mine own.

And it is thoroughly characteristic of Don Marquis that he follows his
prayer with this comment:

People, when they pray, usually pray not for what they really
want--and intend to have if they can get it--but for what they think
the Creator wants them to want. We made a certain attempt to be
sincere in the above verses; but even at that no doubt a lot of
affectation crept in.

THE ART OF WALKING

Away with the stupid adage about a man being as old as his arteries!
He is as old as his calves--his garteries....

--_Meditations of Andrew McGill_.

"There was fine walking on the hills in the direction of the sea."

This heart-stirring statement, which I find in an account of the life of
William and Dorothy Wordsworth when they inhabited a quiet cottage near
Crewkerne in Dorset, reminds me how often the word "walking" occurs in
any description of Wordswort