way. And why should some swarthy robin, be she never so matronly, swear
at me if I set foot on my own front porch?




A MESSAGE FOR BOONVILLE


When corncob pipes went up from a nickel to six cents, smoking
traditions tottered. That was a year or more ago, but one can still
recall the indignation written on the faces of nicotine-soaked gaffers
who had been buying cobs at a jitney ever since Washington used one to
keep warm at Valley Forge. It was the supreme test of our determination
to win the war: the price of Missouri meerschaums went up 20 per cent
and there was no insurrection.

Yesterday we went out to buy our annual corncob, and were agreeably
surprised to learn that the price is still six cents; but our friend the
tobacconist said that it may go up again soon. We took the treasure,
gleaming yellow with fresh varnish, back to our kennel, and we are
smoking it as we set down these words. A corncob is sadly hot and raw
until it is well sooted, but the ultimate flavor is worth persecution.

The corncob pipes we always buy come from Boonville, Mo., and we don't
see why we shouldn't blow a little whiff of affection and gratitude
toward that excellent town. Moreover, Boonville celebrated its
centennial recently: it was founded in 1818. If the map is to be
believed, it is on the southern bank of the Missouri River, which is
there spanned by a very fine bridge; it is reached by two railroads