Vagabond Editorials

By Jack Dionne

Let's forsake the subject of lumber, and the various pet lumber topics for a time. f expect we're all tired of this jumble of contradictions that we call the lumber industry, with its trials and tribulations, its inconsistencies and absurdities, and its present fears fashioned in the forge of doubt. Let us talk about something save the three bromides which have been our chief printed diet for Lo, these many moons.

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For some time since we have deliberately confined our selves-we of this lumber industry-to three general topics of conversation and discussion. The manufactur.er talks of overproduction. The dealer talks of his competitor. And they both talk of the business depression. To disputations concerning these three have we chiefy confined ourbelves. In their direction we have forged and fired our punitive thunderbolts. fn their honor we have relegated to oblivion all other topics. And what have we accomplished? I'm asking you?

Like mincing manikins we have paraded this unholy three, building them bigger and more terrifying with our own words. One case of overproduction or of competitoritis will cause more discussion than two cases of Scotch. three cases of giq, or several cases of appendicitis. And you know how much talk ONE case of either of those will develop.

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So, let us talk of something else at this time. Let us roam far afield for our homilies. Abraham Lincoln's favorite poem was-"Oh, Why Sho'uld the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?" f thought of it the other day when I read sorne figures given out by that group of world-renowned scientists who have been gathered around the great Doctor Einstein, on Mount Wilson, in California, at the great observatory there. These figures were the latest and most official ever uttered concerning the star count that has been made through the world's laigest telescopes on Mount Wilson. Catch hold of your hat while you read these figures. And don't try to visualize them or they'll lock you up.

The star count made "J r; ol *on,r, wilson. said this official announcement, covers approximately two per cent of the heavens. Got that? Well, in that two per cent of the heavens they have found approximately THIRTY MILLION UNMRSES. Got that? Well, in each of these thirty million universes there are BILLIONS OF SUNS and stars. Dizzy, aren't you?

Now, naturally, no *"i"; J" "gotirti" enough to suppose that in all these millions of universes and billions of solar systems, the only one that knows life is this less than grain of sand that we call Earth. And, by cornparison, with all this unthinkable creation, just what do we amount to, and what difference does it make, anyway, whether the price of lumber goes up and down?

And, again speaking of stars, I witnessed an amazing spectacle the other night. It gives you the opposite slant from this star count on "Oh, Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?" I turned out with many thousands of other great American worshippers at the shrine of Queen Pulchritude, to strain, look, and rubber, while the artistocracy of filmdom spread their stuff at the world's premier showing of a new picture in Hollywood. Truly a most irnpressive spectacle!

Can you picture " orouJ o""r**u absolutely choked for a block either way from the theatre with a mob of jostling, pushing, shoving, straining, staring humanity, standing on tiptoe and extending their every faculty to get a flash ofwhat? The Film Stars, of course. Never in the history of the Louies' of France did the proletariat gather with such frenzied homage to look upon the faces-and perchance other parts also-of the great and the near great, their natural attractions enhanced an, hundredfold by the glamour of the occasion.

Fame is indeed a strange thing in this day and generation that we are sharing. I saw a fat man, a fairly decent ex-bar boy who was the victim of unfortunate circumstances, get only curious looks as he went down the line into the theatre; while a lithe woman. whom all accounts declare to be a frank and open advocate of all the forms of licerrse known to the ages from Cleopatra until now-got deafetring applause as she smiled her way along the runway. A beautiful woman glowed with pride at the titled and mustachioed insect that the cat left in her boudoir one night in Europe; and a man of tremendous physique who long ago forsook that same boudoir (and speaks not flatteringly of same) smiled proudly as he led along the runway his latest matrimonial acquisition.

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