In The Big City A Man Will

[a]ll Of Life, As We Know It, Moves In Little, Unavailing Circles. More Justly Than To Anything Else, It Can Be Likened To The Game Of Baseball. Crack! We Hit The Ball, And Away We Go. If We Earn A Run (in Life We Call It Success) We Get Back To The Home Plate And Sit Upon A Bench. If We Are Thrown Out, We Walk Back To The Home Plate -- And Sit Upon A Bench.

Each Of Us, When Our Day's Work Is Done, Must Seek Our Ideal, Whether It Be Love Or Pinochle Or Lobster à La Newburg, Or The Sweet Silence Of The Musty Bookshelves.

A Story With A Moral Appended Is Like The Bill Of A Mosquito. It Bores You, And Then Injects A Stinging Drop To Irritate Your Conscience.

In Time Truth And Science And Nature Will Adapt Themselves To Art. Things Will Happen Logically, And The Villain Be Discomfited Instead Of Being Elected To The Board Of Directors. But In The Meantime Fiction Must Not Only Be Divorced From Fact, But Must Pay Alimony And Be Awarded Custody Of The Press Despatches.

Now, Girls, If You Want To Observe A Young Man Hustle Out After A Pick And Shovel, Just Tell Him That Your Heart Is In Some Other Fellow's Grave. Young Men Are Grave-robbers By Nature.