"I am not sure, as I write, that this article ever will be printed,"
says ROBERT KEABLE, the English author of "Simon Called Peter." (It
is). Mr. Keable, a minister from Africa, wrote of the war as he saw it
in France, and in a way which offended people with mental blinders. He
declares that the war quite completely knocked humbug on the head and
bashed shams irreparably. "Rebels," says he, meaning those who speak
their mind and write of things as they see them, "must be drowned in a
babble of words."

And then HELEN BULLITT LOWRY, the exponent of the cocktailored young
lady of today, averring that to the pocket-flask, that milepost
between the time that was and the time that is, we owe the single
standard of drinking. She maintains that the debutantalizing flapper,
now driven right out in the open by the reformers, is the real
salvation of our mid-victrolian society.

No palpitating defense of censorship would he expected from FREDERICK
O'BRIEN of the South Seas, who contributes (and deliciously defines) a
precious new word to the vocabulary of Nonsenseorship, "Wowzer." The
nature of a wowzer is hinted in a ditty sung by certain uninhibited
individuals as they lolled and imbibed among the mystic atolls and
white shadows:

"Whack the cymbal! Bang the drum!
Votaries of Bacchus!
Let the popping corks resound,
Pass the flowing goblet round!
May no mournful voice be found,
Though wowzers do attack us!"