Now we are down to Mr. Griffith. Mr. Griffith, to our notion, is a great director. But Mr. Griffith is more or less deftly endeavoring to implant the idea in the public mind that he is a poet. That is Mr. Griffith’s peculiarity. He would not be seen much in public; rather he seeks to attract attention by remaining in seclusion. His well organized staff and his actors and actresses, who like him much, never pass up an opportunity to breathe it about that “Mr. Griffith is a poet.” We never read any of David’s verses, but if he is a poet, it devoutly is to be desired that there were more poets and fewer directors operating in pictures. After all, these little peculiarities or hobbies of the picture people are not harmful to any one in particular. We all like to strut and fluff and show our fine feathers. It’s human nature. * * * * * We’ll Say So! While Al. Jolson, the black-face comedian, was touring the Pacific Coast with his latest starring vehicle, “Sinbad,” he visited the California insane asylum, at Napa. Passing through one of the wards he noticed a rather neat chap and asked the attendant the nature of the fellow’s trouble. The attendant told the comedian that it was a new case. Had only arrived the previous day. Jolson approached the patient and inquired “If you had only one wish in the world, and it would be granted, what would you wish for?” The patient looked at Jolson and said, “I’d wish that Volstead was born with a thirst!” With a smile Jolson replied, “You might have been crazy when they brought you here yesterday, brother, but you’re talking good sense today!” * * * * * Our Traffic Cop Thomas Patrick Gallagher, typical Irish traffic copper, was stationed on Madison street in Chicago at the point intersected by the River. One bustling Saturday afternoon, Gallagher held up his hand to halt traffic for the draw bridge. In front of him was a new handsome limousine motor car. While waiting for the bridge to close, a runabout flivver crashed into the rear end of the handsome car. Gallagher was on the job promptly and hustled over to the driver of the flivver. “Phwat in hal does yez mane by smashing into this handsome car? Haven’t you got any eyes?” he bellowed at the meek and humble driver, “Are you crazy? I’ve a good mind to take you down to the headquarters, you blithering idiot. What’s your name?” continued Gallagher, as he extracted a pencil and notebook from his pocket, “What is the number of your car?” The answer came back in typical Gaelic, “Me name is Clancy.” “Clancy,” replied Gallagher. “Clancy, what part of Ireland are you from, what county?” “I am from County Mayo.” “County Mayo,” continued the traffic officer, “County Mayo, say Clancy, stay here just a minute till I go ahead to that big car and see why in the devil he backed into you.” * * * * * Ikey’s Recklessness