“My dear Titania,” I said, “the ways of the Government may seem inscrutable, but we have got to follow them with faith.  If Mr. Wilson tells us to murder 163 fine old men in elastic-sided boots we must simply do it, that’s all.  Peace is a dreadful thing.  We have got to meet the Germans on their own ground.  They adopted this daylight-saving measure years ago.  They call it Sonnenuntergangverderbenpraxis, I believe.  After all, it is only a temporary measure, because in the fall, when the daylight hours get shorter, we shall have to turn the clocks back a couple of hours in order to compensate the gas and electric light companies for all the money they will have lost.  That will bring those 163 old gentlemen to life again and double their remaining term of years to make up for their temporary effacement.  They are patriotic hostages to Time for the summer only.  You must remember that time is only a philosophical abstraction, with no real or tangible existence, and we have a right to do whatever we want with it.”

“I will remind you of that,” she said, “at getting-up time on Sunday morning.  I still think that if we are going to monkey with the clocks at all it would be better to turn them backward instead of forward.  Certainly that would bring you home from the club a little earlier.”

“My dear,” I said, “we are in the Government’s hands.  A little later we may be put on time rations, just as we are on food rations.  We may have time cards to encourage thrift in saving time.  Every time we save an hour we will get a little stamp to show for it.  When we fill out a whole card we will be entitled to call ourselves a month younger than we are.  Tell that to Mrs. Borgia; it will reconcile her.”

A lusty uproar made itself heard upstairs and Titania gave a little scream.  “Heavens!” she cried.  “Here I am talking with you and Junior’s bottle is half an hour late.  I don’t care what Mr. Wilson does to the clocks; he won’t be able to fool Junior.  He knows when it’s, time for meals.  Won’t you call up Central and find out the exact time?”

A TRAGIC SMELL IN MARATHON

Marathon, Pa., April 2.

This is a very embarrassing time of year for us.  Every morning when we get on the 8:13 train at Marathon Bill Stites or Fred Myers or Hank Harris or some other groundsel philosopher on the Cinder and Bloodshot begins to chivvy us about our garden.  “Have you planted anything yet?” they say.  “Have you put litmus paper in the soil to test it for lime, potash and phosphorus?  Have you got a harrow?”

That sort of thing bothers us, because our ideas of cultivation are very primitive.  We did go to the newsstand at the Reading Terminal and try to buy a Litmus paper, but the agent didn’t have any.  He says he doesn’t carry the Jersey papers.  So we buried some old copies of the Philistine in the garden, thinking that would strengthen up the soil a bit.  This business of nourishing the soil seems grotesque.  It’s hard enough to feed the family, let alone throwing away good money on feeding the land.  Our idea about soil is that it ought to feed itself.