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Mrs. Rainey (Margaret Wycherly) tells Nora that all men are "just like big children,” and must have a woman's fostering care all their lives

Francis Bruguiere

What a Woman Believes

er IXED MARRIAGE,” by St. John Ervine, is a play about Ireland by an Irishman. It was written some ten years ago, but Irish problems seem to repeat themselves or to persist, and there is no lack of timeliness in this play, which has just been produced in a tiny out-of-theway New York theatre called the Bramhall. Ervine, who has to his credit “John Ferguson” and “Jane Clegg,” must be ranked among the great playwrights of our day, and it is curious that “Mixed Marriage” should be forced into a side street to find a haven. Indeed, the present season has been distinguished by the fact that several of the most notable productions of the year have been made in little playhouses well off the beaten track. Each time the public has displayed a willingness to venture out into those vast wildernesses which are not Broadway to see these fine things. On the other hand, theatregoers have stayed away in droves from poor plays produced in pretentious and centrally located theatres. Seemingly the much-abused public of New York has developed discrimination, and has begun to act on the principle that the true theatre is not a place of brick and pink plush and imitation marble, but any spot where good actors gather to give a good play. “Mixed Marriage” is a good play, although perhaps not as fine as Ervine's “Jane Clegg,” seen here last season. Ervine has the faculty, to as great a degree as any living dramatist, of making his characters talk naturally and in the idiom of everyday life. He is one of the leaders in the revolt against the theatrical tradition that whenever anything important happens heroes and heroines begin to declaim and break furniture and kick down doors. Some of the tensest and most interesting scenes in his plays occur with people seated comfortably in chairs talking back and forth to one another. It is conceivable that a man or woman may pass through

Margaret Wycherly in "Mixed Marriage” portrays the

tragic and dramatic role of the mother

By Heywood Broun

the most important and tragic moments in life without a shot being fired or any word uttered above the tone of ordinary conversation. Our playwrights have been too ready to ship characters off to distant seas and plunge them into strange adventures seeking the true zest and inwardness of life, although most of us know perfectly well that the things which count are those which go on in the heart and mind of man. These can happen just as well on the corner of Main Street as on the Foochow Road. There's no need to put your hero in a submarine or an airplane, since he may go through emotions and adventures fully as thrilling while seated in a rocking chair. I must admit that sometimes the reaction against theatricalism may go to annoying lengths. There are times when Ervine's characters are too intent upon being matter-of-fact. In “John Ferguson,” one of his characters had to go to the police station to give himself up as a murderer, and he went with the remark that the weather seemed to be getting a little chilly. Mrs. Rainey, in “Mixed Marriage,” finds her whole world tumbling about her ears, and promptly sits down to darn socks. I would like it better if she would miss a stitch or two.

What the Play Is About

ee IXED MARRIAGE” is concerned with religious bigotry. It begins in the home of John Rainey, a middle-aged laborer living in the city of Belfast. Rainey is a stanch Orangeman, very distrustful of his Catholic neighbors and much given to see

ing “Papish plots.” But in the first act we find that religious differences have been sunk in economic ones. Rainey and his fellows have gone on strike, and their only fear is that the workers will cease to make common cause against their employer by fighting among themselves about religion, which is an ever-present topic of discussion in Ireland. A Catholic strike leader comes to Rainey and convinces him that he should take a lead in establishing the new era of good will among the workers of opposite faiths. The first act ends with a complete truce established in the religious issue as Rainey, the Protestant, and Michael O’Hara, the Catholic, sit down to talk over the conduct of the strike. “What ones men are for talkin’,” remarks Nora Murray, the young girl who lives a few houses down the street; but Mrs. Rainey, older and wiser, answers: “Nivir mind, dear, let them go on talkin'; it keeps them quiet.” In the second act the audience gets the hint of impending trouble. John Rainey has a son, Hugh, and Hugh has fallen in love with Nora Murray, a Catholic. He tells his mother and, in a finely written scene, she expresses her sympathy. But it is evident that both are afraid of what Rainey will say to it all when he finds out, although Hugh maintains stoutly that “half the religion in the world is like a disease that ye get from y'r father.” In the next act Rainey discovers the love of his son for Nora, coming upon the young people suddenly as the boy is announcing his intention of marrying whether his father approves or not. Immediately the father forgets his enthusiasm for religious toleration. He no longer cares about preserving a united front among the workers. Indeed, he feels that a trick has been put upon him by all the talk of good feeling, (Comtinued on page 24)

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the Kid stiff. The pantin', excited, and red-faced referee, both hands grabbin' the wagon tongue that passed as Kenney's arm, was actually swingin' off the floor on it tryin' to unhook it from around the Kid's neck. He might as well of tried to push over the Rocky Mountain with one hand! Roberts curled up and kept his head, makin' most of Kenney's rib crackers glance off his arms, but some of 'em was gettin' through, and when they did, havin’ 226 pounds of bone and muscle behind 'em—well, they wasn't doin’ the Kid any good. He kept choppin’ at Kenney's head and face with his right, but this baby seemed to have a iron jaw, and, besides, they was too close together for the Kid to put any snap in his blows. Roberts looked at me over the human bear's shoulder and shook his head, kinda puzzled. “Down below, Kid” I hollers. “Down below—work on his heart!”

TILL cool, the champ drops his head till it rests on Kenney's heavin’ chest. He sets himself for half a second and then both arms begin pumpin' like pistons into the Hurricane's body, left —right, left—right, left—right, left— right! A minute of this and Kenney's grunts with each blow could be plainly heard by guys in the last row. The arm comes away from the Kid's neck, and I see the back muscles quiverin’ under the rollin' skin. Quick as startled lightnin' the Kid shifts his attack, and a vicious right uppercut sent the Bone Crusher back on his heels, pawin’ at the breeze for support. Roberts, however, refused to follow up his advantage and put him away, but contented himself with lefthandin’ his man all over the ring— never lettin' the bewildered Kenney set for a solid punch. The bell only seemed to irritate the Hurricane further, and he took two free swings at the Kid after the latter dropped his hands and started for his corner, for which the mob gave him the razz. When the indignant referee explained to him that the gong meant cease firin', Kenney grinned sheepishly, walked over to the Kid and shook his hand, mumblin’ somethin’ about not knowin' the rules. The Kid presents him with a pleas

was one of neutrality. The Lincolnlike champion of the League of Nations came to the studio wearing an air of resentment; he thought the sculptor intended to put plaster over his face and to take measurements of his features with a tape line. He thawed perceptibly when he found this was not the case and became very much interested in the actual process. The artist was a little more successful in breaking through Arthur Balfour's contented reserve, since Balfour went as far as he could go to make it possible. “I don’t understand why you artists call these things sittings,” he protested once; “I’ve been standing for an hour and a half, and I am about ready to drop.” “They’re either easy or impossible,” Davidson sums it up. “If they don't give themselves to you, it's no use your trying to get them. You can’t work and work and finally get it.” The possibilities of Lloyd George are yet to be determined. Racing back to London to hold down the lid during every perceptible pause in the peace parleys, he was never able to stand still long enough to be done by the sculptor. He has promised to do so, and it will be interesting to have an artist's revelation of what is contained in the mind of the agile British Prime Minister, a mind that proves itself a daily puzzle to half the world and not the same half two days in succession. Davidson had the same experience with President Wilson that many an

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ant smile and a pat on the back, and as Joseph returns to his corner the crowd give him a hand which would of tickled Chaplin. Durin’ the rest I told the Kid that " as this Kenney person was about the foulest fighter I ever seen work, he had better crack him and be done with it. Roberts shakes his head and says he'll merely keep him off and let it go at that. “This fellow isn't deliberately foul,” says the Kid. “He’s simply ignorant of the rules—that's all. I don't believe he ever fought in a ring before in his life until this minute. Besides, he's too tough and too game to be stopped with a punch. I’d have to wear him down with punishment first, and I’m not going to cut him up. Let us alone, we're having a lot of fun!” Kenney didn't land two solid wallops, durin’ the entire second round, though he must of throwed eight million gloves in the general direction of the Kid's Jaw. Long before the bell he was so blown and tired from his own exertions that he lumbered around after the dancin', smilin' Kid like a drunken elephant. Roberts simply give the Hurricane and the crowd a boxin’ lesson, avoidin’ Kenney's terrific clouts by shiftin’ his body aside a fraction of a inch or makin' the Bone Crusher's wellmeant efforts slide harmlessly around his neck by rollin’ his head this way and that, whilst the customers squealed with glee. The gong was a welcome sound to Monsieur Kenney, which flopped heavily on his stool, blowin' like a school of whales. Round three was a duplicate of the other two, with the slight exception that it only went a minute and a half. Kenney was slow to leave his corner, and so tired from chasin'-the elusive Kid about the ring that he could hardly raise his hairy arms. His stomach was pumpin' in and out like a bellows. The mob, quick to sense his condition, implored the Kid to knock him for a goal, but Roberts had no such idea. He straightened the Hurricane up with a couple of stiff jabs to the face, and

Kenney's knees sagged as he fell over against the ropes, mouth open, gaspin', and primed to be bounced. The Kid stepped away from him to make him lead, and as Kenney swung wildly with both hands to the head, the champ-slid inside the blows and planted a short right hook to the jaw. I know Roberts pulled the punch. There was hardly enough kick in it to rock a man, and a few minutes earlier Kenney would of brushed it off like a fly. But now it was all different! Out of condition and exhausted by his own wild swingin’, the Bone Crusher toppled to his knees with a crash that shook the r1ng. He paid no attention to the referee's count—prob'ly didn't know what it was all about—but turnin’ his head around he snarled somethin’ at the cuckoo mob, which was on its feet screamin' at him. Slowly and painfully Kenney pulled himself upright at the count of “six,” a thin, crimson stream tricklin' from one corner of his mouth, where the Kid had prob'ly loosened a tooth. He spread his trer-blin’ legs wide apart to brace himself upright, and faced the Kid with danglin', useless arms, his glarin’ eyes the livest portion of his tired body. Settin' his jaw, Kenney stares grimly into the Kid's troubled features. “Go ahead, old-timer,” pants this twenty-nine carat gamester, “they ain’t nothin’ to hinder yuh now!” With the deleerious mob bellerin’ for murder, show me the champion or preliminary bum which wouldn't of measured this guy and knocked him stiff' But Kid Roberts drew back and looked sharply at the beaten Hurricane for a instant, and then, as Kenney suddenly swayed on his feet, the Kid stepped forward and caught him in his arms, easin’ him gently to the floor. “Next!” bawls the announcer. The mob is already jostlin’ out of the exits.

E had to lay over in this burg till two o'clock the next afternoon, and durin’ breakfast in the Kid's private car we got to talkin’ about Monsieur Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. I had personally gave

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- the future.

that baby a lot of thought, for at the time I was already keepin’ a eye out for a possible successor to Roberts, which couldn't be moved a inch from his determination to quit the ring after a couple of fights as champion, win, lose, or draw. The fact that the Kid had disposed of Kenney with the greatest of ease the night before didn't bother me at all—Kid Roberts himself was a terrible bust in his first start. Kenney had showed he possessed the first and most important requirement of a fighter, viz. and to wit, courage. Also, I had the Kid’s word for it that he could hit. As he stood now he didn't know the difference between a left hook and the referee, but he could be taught that, and likewise to hit from his bulgin’ shoulders instead of from his hips. Although he looked ten years older, he had give his age as twenty-four, another big help. Standin' a good three inches over six foot, he scaled 226, of which perhaps fifteen pounds was flabby and could be worked off, leavin' him a steel-sinewed, giant fightin' machine with heart enough to make him a serious problem in a twenty-four foot ring for any man! As a matter of fact, I figured that about three months readyin’ up and workin’ out with my champ would make Kenney ripe to wade through the third-rate heavies as sensationally as the Kid did. I put it up to Roberts, and he was enthusiastic. “Bring him along, by all means,” he nods. “He’s a good, game fellow and may develop into a first-class heavyweight. At all events, he'll make a splendid sparring partner, for, in spite of his greenness, he's tough and dangerous enough to keep me on my toes for a few minutes at least. I admire the way he stood up to me, and I’ll take a great deal of interest in teaching him what I can.” He takes out his wallet and removes a hundred-case note. “Here,” he adds, “that big fellow's poor showing against a smaller man last night must have been rather humiliating. I know how miserable I felt the first time! Give him this—it’ll cheer him up a bit. From the desperate way, he tried to put me out, the poor devil probably needs it, unless I'm very much mistaken.” (Continued on page 22)

unimpressed Britisher, “I lawffed at that lawst summer.” Things went easily after the first sitting, and the total number was extended to seven. The impression the President gave the sculptor was that of a man carrying a heavy burden—and carrying it heavily. That is the impression likewise that the finished bronze gives. “It would be hard to say,” Davidson replied to a question that brought the case of Wilson into focus with the original subject of this article, “whether or not President Wilson tries to visualize himself through the eyes of future generations. I tried to see him in that light, of course; that is to say, the self he really is, his mind, heart, character; those are the things I sought to put into the clay. One thing is certain, he doesn’t give much thought, I might almost say he doesn't give any thought, to the physical appearance he presents to the world; I don't suppose he ever spent a minute looking in a mirror, except when he was shaving.” The conversation seemed to reduce itself to this: Great men give little thought to Great occasions produce great men and great occasions keep great men so busily engaged in making good - that they haven't opportunity to think very far beyond the moment. Davidson, no doubt, was right when he said: “Naw "

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He was very much mistaken! I ambled into a general store where they sold everything from potatoes to pianos, and learned that Joseph Kenney could be found on a cattle mine about two miles out of the metropolis. The merchant prince which owns the store heartily recommends his son as a scout, and a long, lean, lank dumb-bell garbed like Wm. S. Hart, minus the artillery, quits killin' flies with the lash of a quirt and nods for me to follow him out. I was just goin’ to inform him that ridin’ horses was one of the two or three things I ain't fluent at, when he leads me over to a ancient, dilapidated flivver, and motions me to enter therein. “Wait a minute I says. “How much is it goin’ to set me back for this joy ride?” “Twenty dollars!” answers my charmin’ guide, automatically disqualifyin' himself as a movie cowboy by usin' two hands to roll a cigarette. “I’ll give you five,” I says, pleasantly. “Done,” he says. “Git in and hol’ fast !” Joe Kenney, nee the Chickasha Bone Crusher, was discovered aboard a horse with some guys afoot which was mendin’ rails in a fence. He returned my greetin' intact. A little mouse under his right eye and a slightly puffed lip was the only visible signs of strife on the man mountain's countenance. Realizin’ how a hundred bucks must appeal to a forty-dollar-the-month cow-puncher, I drawed forth the bill and handed it to him. “A little present from Kid Roberts,” I explains with a bewitchin' ... smile. “Likewise, I have come to offer you a chance to make as much in a week punchin’ ears as you'd make in a month punchin' steers! Boss here, is he?”

12,

HE world's largest cowboy looks the hundred-case note over carefully, folds it up, and slips it in his pocket. “Much obliged 1" he says. “This here's the Crawlin' S ranch. I own it, so I reckon I'm the boss!” Anybody which has nothin’ else to do can picture my astonishment. “Aheh,” I says, when I recovered. “Of course, bein’ the wealthy owner of a steak farm instead of a lowly cowboy, them—ah—hundred smackers I just give you was unnecessary and—” “That's all right,” butts in the Bone Crusher. “Every little bit helps ' Come up to the house and I’ll hear . yore story.” “Eh—I hardly think it's worth while now,” I says. “I’m afraid my stuff wouldn't hit you at all—you bein’ a rich cattle king and the like. I come here with the idea of gettin' you interested in the box-fightin’ industry, but—”

materials of the world. A similar suggestion was made by some of the other Allied governments. Those were the days when the world had only one industry—war. We were all spending our savings of the past and pledging our earnings of the future. We seemed to have good business and we had great activity; but a man can go in anywhere with a big bank roll and a desire to spend it—and create activity. , First the governments did that, and then, with the war closed, the people, as studious pupils of extravagance, stepped up and did likewise. Anyone can do business and make money in such fashion. In a time of excessive demand it takes a genius to lose money, for the demander is always willing to pay a price that will cover any mistakes. A government war control must not let a producer go out of business; the objective is goods—not goods at a price, but just goods. The law of supply and demand is put away in moth balls, and always a few people, especially those who have absorbed a certain amount of socialism, forget that the law was ever in force.

The Chickasha Bone Crusher

Continued from page 20

“Well, pardner,” interrupts Kenney, his eyes gleamin'. “Yuh couldn't have throwed in with a more interested man. As a matter of cold fact, yore talkin' to the comin' heavyweight champeen of the world !”

This was all different and I followed him up to the house without no more further ado.

SWEET-FACED, brown-eyed, fairly good-lookin' young woman is sittin' on the pazzaza wieldin' a mean darnin’ needle and exercisin’ women's inalienable right to hum to themselves whilst workin’. At the foot of her rockin'-chair romped, as I rightly guessed, three little Chickasha Bone Crushers. The girl's face lit up like a cathedral when she seen Kenney, and I discovered I had been mistaken when I thought her fairly good-lookin'. She was beautiful. This love thing is wonderful stuff, and I bet they'll be a crash heard round the world when I fall into it!. Mention of the fact that I was manager of a prize fighter killed off the welcomin’ smile on the face of Kenney's wife, but the introductions was accomplished without violence and we went on inside the house. The Chickasha Bone Crusher dragged out a box of cigars, a wink, and a bottle of prohibition antidote in that order. Then he sits down and stretches himself. “Come a-shootin’!” he says. I asked him if he was in the habit of drinkin’ and smokin’ as trainin’ exercises, and, frownin', he says he was in the habit of doin’ what he pleased, so I made the greatest haste to remark that whilst it was none of my business, he was ruinin’ his wind with the smokes and his nerves with the hooch and that most successful scrappers laid off both. With a grin, Kenney reaches lazily over and picks up a unusually thick oker from the fireplace. Placin’ his i. about a foot apart on it, he bent it double like I’d fold a sheet of paper. Then he bent it back again and tossed it clatterin’ on the floor. I’d never seen the stunt done before with such little effort. They was no veins standin’ out like whipcords, as the sayin' is, on Kenney's 20-inch neck, nor did beads of perspiration drop off his brow. He done the thing as carelessly as he'd break a matchstick. The Bone Crusher didn't have to do that to show me his muscle. A look at him and you’d believe he'd moved Grant's Tomb six inches with his shoulders' But strength alone, boys and girls, is

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not enough to become a title holder in fistiana. For the example, every good wrestler has had ambitions to become a boxin' champ at one time or another in his career and a great many of 'em have laced on a pair of gloves and stepped into a ring only to be made look foolish by some third-rate pug. Even Frank Gotch, the daddy of 'em all, once had this experience. Professional strong men, weight lifters, and the like are flops as a rule when they turn to the ring. Their sinews havin' been developed for show or pushin’ and haulin' purposes, they’re so slow and muscle-bound that the slighter boxer has no trouble at all steppin’ around 'em and pastin' 'em pretty.

UT to get back to the Bone Crusher. Inside of a half hour I have found out that readin’ about what heavyweight champions got for a few minutes' work had murdered Joe Kenney's interest in the art of raisin' cows. Likewise, Joseph made no secret of the fact that he figured himself a topside slugger, able to hold his own with the best of 'em right now. “Well, Joe,” I says enthusiastically, when he got finished, “I’m for you and so's Kid Roberts. Get your hat on and we'll go down to a notary's public if they is one in this burg. I'll sign you up for three years and you can start workin' out with the Kid right away. With me as your manager and the champ as your teacher—why, say, inside of a year—” “Draw in yore loop, old-timer!” butts in Joe, risin’ and handin’ me my hat. “I don't need no manager, and I ain't aimin’ to take no job as a helper. I don't want to take advantage of yore champeen by joinin' up with his outfit, because I can lick the tar out of him right now! While yore here, I'm a-givin’ yuh fair warnin’—the next time I run across yore man, I'm comin' a-sluggin' with both hands!” A dumb-bell is a awful thing, hey? The Kid and me split a laugh between us when I told him how the Chickasha Bone Crusher had received my generous offer. Then we forgot all about Monsieur Kenney.

HF next stop was Tycopee, another duck-in and duck-out hamlet, and when the Kid finishes his act and calls for volunteers, Battlin' Thomas, one of the plants we carried, starts up the aisle, as they is no response from the brave men and true in the audience. Halfways to the ring the Battler is

The Cigar and Chair Idea

Continued from page 9

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T the close of the war many men wanted the controls of the War Industries Board retained, for, so they said, otherwise prices would fall and the country would go to pieces. . They had accustomed themselves to having some one else do the thinking, and they could not get out of the habit. They thought, but really without thinking, that the Government system of controlling prices when the Government was the buyer might be equally successful with individual buyers. They did not know that the law of supply and demand got tired of the camphor chest and came out of its own accord and began to work as of old. The government in war does not care about price—it cannot. The public does care

make him buy it.

about price—and must. During a shortage the seller may effect an organization that will say to the pleading consumer: “You may have this and no more, and at this price.” But the consumer soon tires of pleading. He will not stay long on rations, and, under the influence of his supply-and-demand friend, he quits his importunities and decides that, after all, there is nothing n:uch that he wants. Then he is the normal buyer—not a buyer at all, but a man that has to be sold to. And it takes every ounce of brain and energy and every hour of the day to devise ways and means to manufacture that which he ought to buy—and then to It is not exquisite taste in leisure, but exquisite results in

work, that make for success in this hard

world. o The search for ease is alluring; we all hope that some day we can stop work and do a great number of things that we have in mind, but which we have been too busy to do. But, as I see the drift of the times, it is in the direction of supposing that ease can precede

pushed to one side by a large, tall person wearin’ a wide-brimmed black Stetson. Layin' one hand on the top rope, the stranger leaps into the ring, waves his hand airily to the shoutin' crowd, and presents me and the Kid with a sneerin', full-toothed grin. “Beats all how us boys do cross trails!” says Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher, throwin’ his coat over one of the posts. “I'd admire to draw down them five thousand dollars. Whereabouts is them gauntlets?” Twenty minutes later the Kid is shakin’ hands with a somewhat battered and slightly bleedin' human shock absorber entitled Hurricane Kenney. One of Kenney's glims is a study in purple, and a cut on his left cheek bone shows the dashin’ rancher to be possessed of red blood anyways. Kid Roberts is sportin' several crimson blotches on his gleamin’ white body where some of the Hurricane's wild haymakers has landed, but outside of that is unmarked. “Better luck next time, old man!” smiles the Kid as we're leaving the ring. “I’ll knock yuh out next time!” growls the jovial Kenney. We had a hundred-and-fifty-mile jump from this slab, and a wicked rainstorm when we got there kept most of the natives away. But it didn't keep Joe Kenney away! Joseph ambled up the aisle and took a front seat whilst the Kid was givin' a exhibition of bag punchin'. Seein’ him, the Kid laughed and then nodded pleasantly and Joe replied with a snarl that caused the hicks on both sides of him to edge from him nervously. A short time afterward Joe give the customers a treat by crashin' through the ropes to the floor twice, in his desperate efforts to knock Kid Roberts for a row of ash cans. About the only time Kenney laid a glove on the Kid was when they shook hands at the end of the thing. Well, for the next half dozen times the Chickasha Bone Crusher was a regular feature of the show, wherever they permitted boxin'. Kid Roberts, which seemed to be gettin' a lot of giggles out of Kenney, refused to knock him stiff and be done with it, although he always had to slow up this big ham early with a smash over the heart so’s no accidents would happen. Fin'ly we got to New Orleans, where we’re due to linger a week. Kenney fails to appear on the openin’ night, and I lay the Kid eight to five that the Bone Crusher has decided to call it a day. He showed up on the last night and the big stiff thereby costs me eight hundred fish. But before Kenney lumbered into the ring that eve me and the Kid has (Continued on page 24)

this objectionable work, or that ease and work can go together. The emphasis has shifted from stopping work after a season to not starting work at all. Where is all this heading? Have the means of production grown so much better that we all can have all we need working on a 60 per cent basis? Laborers and clerks may be a little above that average, and executives a little below, but that is about the basis we are working on as compared with our prewar effort. Would it be necessary to talk and confer so much if we broke into that 40 per cent of idle time and did a little more hard, earnest, sweating work? If we must join and organize, let us organize to promote individual initiative—to do more and to get more and to increase the sum of human happiness. Then I think we shall find less necessity for organizing to solve problems. We shall not have the problems to solve. We shall have our work and our leisure and will distinguish between them. And I think we shall be happier.

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