Abou Ben Woodrow (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, among the gifts piled on the floor (Making the room look like a department store), An Angel writing in a book of gold. Now much applause had made Ben Woodrow bold And to the Presence in the room said he, "_Qu'est-ce que c'est que ça que tu ecris?"_ Or, in plain English, "May I not inquire What writest thou?" The Angel did not tire But kept on scribing. Then it turned its head (All Europe could not turn Ben Woodrow's head!) And with a voice almost as sweet as Creel's Answered: "The names of those who grease the wheels Of progress and have never, never blundered." Ben Woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered. "And is mine one?" he queried. "Nay, not so," Replied the Angel. Woodrow spoke more low But cheerly still, and in his May I notting Fashion he said: "Of course you may be rotting, But even if you are, may I not then Be writ as one that loves his fellow men? Do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely And I am yours, cordially and sincerely." The Angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse. Next night returned (accompanied by House) And showed the names whom love of Peace had blest. And lo! Ben Woodrow's name led all the rest! MY MAGNIFICENT SYSTEM In these days when the streets are so perilous, every man who goes about the city ought to be sure that his pockets are in good order, so that when he is run down by a roaring motor-truck the police will have no trouble in identifying him and communicating with his creditors. I have always been very proud of my pocket system. As others may wish to install it, I will describe it briefly. If I am found prostrate and lifeless on the paving, I can quickly be identified by the following arrangement of my private affairs: In my right-hand trouser leg is a large hole, partially surrounded by pocket. In my left-hand trouser pocket is a complicated bunch of keys. I am not quite sure what they all belong to, as I rarely lock anything. They are very useful, however, as when I walk rapidly they evolve a shrill jingling which often conveys the impression of minted coinage. One of them, I think, unlocks the coffer where I secretly preserve the pair of spats I bought when I became engaged. My right-hand hip pocket is used, in summer, for the handkerchief reserves (hayfever sufferers, please notice); and, in winter, for stamps. It is tapestried with a sheet of three-cent engravings that got in there by mistake last July, and adhered. My left-hand hip pocket holds my memorandum book, which contains only one entry: _Remember not to forget anything_. The left-hand upper waistcoat pocket holds a pencil, a commutation ticket and a pipe cleaner.