the part of his spouse. I no more believe that Mrs. Gummidge thought they wanted that Christmas candy than I believe that she thought they wanted the cold turkey which she later suggested. My opinion is that she wanted to drive them home. At any rate, that is what she succeeded in doing. Such cries as there were of "Ugh! Don't let me see another thing to eat!" and "Take it away!" Then came hurried scramblings in the coat-closet for overshoes. There were the rasping sounds made by cross parents when putting wraps on children. There were insincere exhortations to "come and see us soon" and to “get together for lunch some time." And, finally, there were slammings of doors and the silence of utter exhaustion, while Mrs. Gummidge went about picking up stray sheets of wrapping paper. And, as Tiny Tim might say in speaking of Christmas afternoon as an institution, "God help us, every one." FREDERICK LEWIS ALLEN Wanted: An Income Taximeter I SEE that Mr. Mellon and his friends in Washington are engaged in their annual sport of lowering the income taxes. This is all right so far as it goes; but if they want to make a real hit with a suffering public, why don't they invent an income-tax blank that can be filled out without the aid of slide-rule, a dictionary, and a staff of learned statisticians? I have just been taking the examination in higher mathematics known as Form 1040, and I speak from a full heart and an aching mind. The moment I saw the paper I knew I was going to flunk. The beginning of it was comparatively easy, but I didn't let that fool me. In my college days I knew too many fellows who would come out of the examination room groaning that the first question was such a snap that they spent an hour and a half writing on it, and didn't even get to question 7b. So after printing my name and address in beautiful big letters, I started in concisely: 1. Are you a citizen or resident of the United States? Answer: Both. 2. Is this a joint return of husband and wife? Answer: I'm doing all the work myself, if that's what you mean. 3. Were you married and living with husband or wife on the last day of your taxable year? Answer: Yes and no; wife, not husband. I got this far and stopped. That last question kept running in my mind. Were you married and living with husband or wife on the last day of your taxable year? It had a sort of lyrical quality, although the scansion was not quite perfect. It faintly suggested the work of Alfred, Lord Tennyson on an off day. Would I be given extra credit if I caught the spirit of the thing and answered in verse? Perhaps the examiner expected something like this: Was I married and living with husband or wife On the last long day of my taxable year? On the last long day when the old year tarried I was living with someone to whom I was married or possibly even this: You must wake and call me early, call me early, Mellon dear, Of all the taxable year, Mellon, the last and merriest day; I'll be married and living with my wife, and it will certainly pay. But with the next question came disillusionment. No longer did the bard of the Treasury strum his lyre. He descended from Parnassus to the somber levels of prose and asked, How many dependent persons (other than husband or wife) under 18 years of age or incapable of selfsupport because mentally or physically defective were receiving their chief support from you on the last day of your taxable year? That fatal day again! Little, thought I, do we realize till long afterwards which are the really significant days. I looked at the instructions. Four hundred dollars apiece for dependents on that day, and I had let the chance slip! Next year I should be prepared. I took my engagement pad, turned to the page for December 30, 1926, and wrote firmly: "To-morrow is the last day of my taxable year. Have guest room ready for mental and physical defectives." It was while I was looking at the instructions that I began to realize why so many of our young men are unwilling to get married nowadays. Getting married (or, as the unromantic Mr. Mellon would put it, having a change of status) involves too much mathematics. "Listen," I cried to my wife, who was reading in the next room, "aren't you glad our status didn't change during the year? I'll bet you can't understand this." And I read from the instructions: "In case the status of a taxpayer changes during the taxable year, the personal exemption shall be the sum of an amount which bears the same ratio to $1000 as the number of months during which the taxpayer was single bears to 12 months, plus an amount which bears the same ratio to $2500 as the number of months during which the taxpayer was a married person living with husband or wife or was head of a family bears to 12 months." "What are you reading?" said my wife sleepily. I thought you were figuring out your income tax." "So I am," said I. "A bear story? "All I could hear," said she, "was something about bears-singie bears and family bears. Didn't you say family bears to 12 months?" I looked at the instructions again. "Yes, but-" "Well," said the voice from the next room, "what do they think we're running a zoo? Tell them we have no bears; tell them all our bears are more than 12 months old; tell them-Look here, do we get credit for bears or do we have to pay for them? It might come in handy to know in case we're offered one some time. 'A delightful pet,' we could say to our visitors, 'and we get a reduction on our income tax for him. In confidence I may add that he's a family bear, with defective dependents." " I gave her up as hopeless and turned swiftly to the section marked INCOME. For some minutes I worked busily, and the figures flew. I consulted Schedule A, I consulted Instruction 18, I stated nature of income, I explained in Table on page 2. I was away down in Item 3a, trying to decide whether I had claimed exemption during the year, and if so, from what, when my wife wandered in and looked over my shoulder. "Are you going to claim obsolescence?" said she. "Why?" I asked. She pointed to the instructions, and I read, "Enter on line 15 the amount claimed as depreciation by reason of exhaustion, wear and tear, obsolescence or depletion." "I was thinking of your hat," she went on amiably. "You know— the gray one. That sentence sounds to me like a direct invitation to make a claim on that hat. Only if you do it, you seem to be letting yourself in for a good deal. The very next sentence says, 'If obsolescence is claimed, explain why useful life is less than actual life.' That would seem to call for a short metaphysical essay." I looked long and hard at the instructions. Useful life is less than actual life. "I don't know just what that means," said I, "but I don't like it. It has a cynical sound. Do you think it proper for the Government to circulate a document like this, which may fall into the hands of the young? Think of the young men-minors having a net income of $1000 or $2500, according to the marital status, or a gross income of $5000-who may read this and go about saying hopelessly to one another, 'It's true, it's true, as we feared. There is no Santa Claus, and useful life is less than actual life.' Here is the Collector of Internal Revenue, who only a little while ago was writing poems about living with husband or wife, practically admitting that the whole thing is a miserable farce. 'Why go on with it any longer?' he seems to imply. 'Why not become a decedent, and let your executors or administrators make returns for you on Form 1040 or 1040A?'” "Something ought to be done about it," agreed my wife. "You might write to Mr. Mellon. But meanwhile don't forget your hat." It was days and days later in the taxable year when I finished my ordeal of additions, explanations, deductions, and computations and, sitting in the midst of a perfect snowdrift of scratch-paper, feebly set down the last item of all-BALANCE OF TAX. It wasn't very big, that last item; the newspapers will not itch to publish it; but by the time I reached it the words in the tax-return which had come to have the most vivid meaning to me were exhaustion and depletion. Oh, Mr. Mellon, why must you make things so complicated for us? Why don't you just ask us how much money we have made during the year and tell us what to divide it by, and ask us whether we had rather pay in advance or have it put on next month's bill? JOHN GALLISHAW Show Him Some Signs THE cause, indirectly, was the kindliness of "Peter." That was the name we called him behind his back. He was the Headmaster, and in charge of the Sixth School at St. Patrick's Hall. We loved Peter, a tall, wiry Irishman in his early fifties. He was grey-haired, ascetic, and grimly sarcastic, yet so kindly that he always regretted his sarcasms the moment he uttered them, following them with a stricken, “God forgive me; my tongue ran away with me." I discovered his weakness early and played on his feelings; I could always avoid a beating at the hands of Peter by a torrent of weeping. At the first sign of tears, Peter would release me, saying, "He's so high-spirited that he can't bear to be punished; the rough side of my tongue will be punishment enough. God forgive me." I know not how many punishments I escaped thusfrom Peter. But I aroused the envy of the less histrionically gifted, who whispered that I was "teacher's pet." The chastisement I escaped at the hands of the master I suffered at the hands of my fellow-pupils. When I entered the Sixth School, I was a rather timid, sensitive boy of fourteen, much afraid of physical punishment. Although I could play a good game of hockey, or of "soccer" football, I usually chose the goaltender's position because that called for little actual tussling and physical struggle. I tried to avoid fist-fights; but no matter how much I tried, they were always forced upon me. Always, I was beaten. Because my heart was not in them, I submitted, took my punishment, and escaped. Yet the necessity for fighting always pursued me. All the boys I knew fought. We went in "crowds"; each neighborhood had its "crowd," formed as the adherents of some boy who had a redoubtable reputation as a fighter. This boy usually stimulated his followers to action; and when no better opportunity offered, fostered quarrels between members of his own crowd. The fights were nearly always begun with the same procedure. The bystanders, having stung the opposing boys to a willingness for action, placed a small stone or piece of wood on the shoulder of one, and said to his rival: "Knock it off." Once the stone was knocked off, the two opponents eyed each other, each striving by glares to intimidate his adversary. To one, the promoter of the fight said, “Say 'duff." This pregnant word being uttered, the promoter said to the other gladiator, "Give him a curly puff." The "curly puff" was a slight blow upon the chest or arm: never upon a vulnerable spot. It was a sort of sighting shot, a mere preliminary. Once the "curly puff" was delivered, the fighters were free to use such methods as they wished or could: kicking and biting were barred by the spectators; the object was for one boy to secure an arm hold around his adversary's neck with his left hand; then with his opponent's head in firm chancery, he "punched" with his right hand at the other's nose, stopping between each punch to ask, "Are you bet?" At the acknowledgment that a boy was "bet," he was released; the fight was over. When a newcomer came to the neighborhood, it was customary for him to establish himself by fighting some member of the crowd; usually I was selected. Every member of the "crowd" had at one time or another received my speedy acknowledgment that I was "bet." When I was fourteen, however, I underwent a change. I grew up, as it were, over night, into a very tall, very wiry boy, with a smooth, girlish face which deceived many people as to my strength. I was very strong; and a good wrestler. Up till then I had submitted to defeat because I had no gusto for fighting, and no pride. Fighting bored me; and I didn't mind in the least being thought a poor fighter. I agreed with the verdict. But when I was fourteen, a new boy came into our crowd. It was in the winter-time; and we had been playing hockey on |