Journal of the OUTDOOR LIFE IMPORTANT NOTICE TO SUBSCRIBERS Use Money Order if When your subscription expires, renew at once. If it expires with this issue, your renewal T. B. OR NOT T. B. BY PHIL LE NOIR, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO EDITORIAL NOTE With this issue the JOURNAL OF THE OUTDOOR LIFE begins publication in serial form for a few numbers of a manuscript entitled "T. B. OR NOT T. B.," by Phil LeNoir. Mr. LeNoir is a trenchant writer. His personal experience in chasing the cure has given him a sympathetic appeal. He proposes to publish this manuscript in book form. The JOURNAL is for the time being contemplating its publication only in serial form. The cheerful, optimistic philosophy running through the manuscript coupled with the fact that there is no plot and no special continuity makes the reading of the several instalments easy and all the more attractive. The editor invites comments from readers of the JOURNAL particularly as to how they like or do not like the series. Introduction BY JOHN TOMBS, ALBUQUERQUE, N. M. Marvel of Marvels! Here is a book full of delightful foolishness, written in the vernacular of the T. B., with no plot, no problems, no tears-save those engendered by sympathy, no love theme-save the love that goes out from the reader as he reads between the lines and with no hero-save the T. B. himself. "T. B. OR NOT T.B." is a happy book -a chuckle all the way through. In Ioway a new and lovable character has been added to the world's literature. If I were a Doctor and a T. B. consulted me, I would hand him a prescription reading "Rx Chuckle all you can." Why not laugh outright? Sure, if you get away with it, but all lungers cannot it might start something-so I say, "Chuckle all you can", and as an aid to that end, by all means read Phil Le Noir's book-there's a chuckle in every line. "A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market", said Charles Lamb. Right! And may I add as Solomon might have said had he been one of us"A chuckle is more precious than rubies". So it is still better to chuckle than to laugh-it's safer for some of us-and besides, a chuckle lasts longer. Optimism has always been recognized as having the greatest therapeutic value -in fact it is the only worth while principle behind many of the faddy and fanciful cults that have sprung into existence in the past few years. So I'm for optimism. In "T. B. OR NOT T. B." mere optimism is mingled with real humor and under the author's skillful hand "they blend perfectly". We need more such medicine as Phil Le Noir's book furnishes, there is nothing just like it in the whole realm of lit erature. Somehow I cannot help but think that M. L. Hammel had such efforts as "T. B. OR NOT T. B." in mind when she wrote the beautiful little verses recently published in "LIFE": He made a little, simple song And sent it down along the years; And now and then to burning eyes It brings the tears! And weary ears that hear forget Life's cry and clamor for a while, And though his gentle soul has long I'm fighin' glad! T. B.'s gas, is the same reason why you can't put more than 16 ounces of water in a pint bottle. It don't matter what University or College or how high a seat o' learnin' you came from, when you jine the T. B. outfit you've got to begin your eddication all over agin. Ioway Ike had been watching a T. B. gum-chewing lady for several days and was the butt of many jokes until he explained: "I got it all figgered out that if a saw could have been rigged up to that lady's jaw, she'd a cut enough wood the past three days to have lasted me all winter." Napoleon said an army fights on its stomach. Our doctors claim a T. B. Sayings of loway Ike fights best on his back; and I rise up to say that a lot of other fellers get by on their nerve. Heck! Some o' these here weather alibiers make me tired. What's the use? You've always got to figger weather in New Mexico or New Zealand just the same as you do the kick of a cross-eyed mule as a least bit onsartin! "Wall!" spoke up Ike as he observed a T. B. surresptitiously taking his temperature for the fifth time that morning, "it's my opinion if some fellers round here'd just swaller their temp sticks they'd be a heap sight better off. Heard a feller say the other day that if he could get rid of the Sinn Feiners he would solve the Irish Question; if he could chase Villa out of Mexico he would straighten out the Mexican mix-up; and if he could clean the Bolsheviki out of Russia, he'd solve the Russian question. All of which makes me "rar up" and opine that I would abolish the T. B. if I could "jist git rid of the tubercular bacilli." Oh, well, J. B. and T. B. ain't never been what you'd call boozem frens, anyway. Ain't a heap o' diffrence between a Simp and a Symptomaniac. There's many a banana peal between the chase and the cure. A word to some wise T. B.'s ain't sufficient a-tall. The most optimistic feller we ever heerd of is the T.B. who laffs in his sleep. Bill Whittle says some Sans spell their name with a capital S. Bill afterward admitted he'd had a dis-pute about payin' his bill. Two tenderfeet T. B.'s after seeing Jim Whitmore git histed off an outlaw hoss at the Cowboy's Reunion, decided right then and there they reckoned as how they wouldn't go out on that ranch and "rough it" after all. Bill Whittle says he guessed they were afeerd o' ketchin' broncho-pneumonia. The way some T. B.'s act toward their doctors makes me think of a movie fan I knew back hum. This here feller'd flop down in his seat with a slam and a bang, his face all drawn and stony, like he was settin' in the Sing Sing 'lectric chair waitin' for the juice to be turned on, and then you'd hear him growl atween his teeth: "All Right, Mr. Pitcher Man, I'm here, enI've paid my way. Now make me laff—make me cry! I dare you to!" Been a hearin' a lot lately 'bout this here Nurse question. As near as I can figger it out, and without meanin' to cast any asparagus on either side, the chief dee-fu-cultee seems to be that the registered nurses claim the practical nurses ain't registered nurses, while the practical nurses claim as how the registered nurses ain't practical nurses." We Are Ten Million I. We are ten million strong, A Mighty "chasing" throng; We whoop and cough and wheeze and hack, II. Oh, we are ten Million strong, An optimistic throng; We keep our griefs beneath our hats, Or if we're girls, beneath our rats, We eat raw Onions and-and that's Why we ARE ten Million strong. Hello Lunger-folks! Fraternal Greetings! How 'bout it-are we downhearted? Now all together: "NO-NO -No!! Of course you've heard of the new League of Patients? Eggsactly! It will prevent the Germ-hens from hatching. out any more Fighting Bugs. By the way, a T. B. who saws wood, would you dub him a Lunger-Jack? T. B. or not T. B.-that IS the question. Or to put it another way, T. B. or Knot T. B. a T. B.-THAT is the question, and the answer is up to you. And besides, tell your trouble to the Marines; They're looking for it. Would you call a loony lunger a chestnut? ("Hey Bill," he's in again.) In fighting T. B., make each day not only the happiest but the scrappiest day of your life. A fact you cannot "duck" is: What most quacks don't know about T. B. would fill a good-sized cemetery. To the uninitiated, the T. B. "language" (and it is a lingo all its own) is a wonderful thing, but at times rather dis- chiefly of-chasing. AND: you'll have to take time to keep-chasing. If you don't take time to keep cured, Then, this one: Dear Wifey: Santa Kerkie, N. M. Arrived O.K. Fine T. B. San. Nice little town. But believe me, someone slipped up when they said there were only men out here. Honestly, in one block I gazed into faces that would make Mary Pickford and Alice Joyce look like ads on a tomato-can. As for form, all I've got to say is, that the divine Annette must have been born in this burg, and her folks are still living here. By the way, I met Billy Brightlights, an old college chum, who is out here on an enforced vacation, and of course we are doing our chasing together. John Highflier, Your faithful hubby, Windy City, Ill. Santa Kerkie, N. M. I knew I couldn't trust you alone. Mother and I will be out on the next train. Lizzie. She was always getting things mixed, but she spoke the truth nearer than she knew, when she said: "Have you seen the third-floor nurse's patients? You know, they look so clean and uncomfortable." A T. B. who persists in coughing on the downtown streets-would you call him a public hack? |