This world cannot be operated on a sentimental basis. The experiment has been made on a small scale, and it has always failed; on a large scale it would only fail more magnificently. People who are naturally kind of heart, and of less than average selfishness, wish that the impossible might be compassed, but, unless they are half-witted, or are paid agitators, they recognize that the impossible is well named. Self-interest is the core of human nature, and before that core could be appreciably modified, if ever, the supply of heat from the sun would be so reduced that the noblest enthusiasm would be chilled. The utmost achievable in this sad world is an enlightened self-interest. This we expect of the United States when the peace makers gather. Anything more selfish would be a reproach to our professed principles. Anything less selfish would be a reproach to our intelligence. * * * I SHOT AN ARROW INTO THE AIR, IT WENT RIGHT THROUGH MISS BURROUGHS' HAIR. [From the Dallas Bulletin.] We quote Miss Burroughs: "I don't think B. L. T. is so good any more--it takes an intelligent person to comprehend his meaning half the time." * * * The world is running short of carbonic acid, the British Association is told by Prof. Petrie. "The decomposition of a few more inches of silicates over the globe will exhaust the minute fraction of carbonic acid that still remains, and life will then become impossible." But cheer up. The Boston Herald assures us that "there is no immediate cause of alarm." Nevertheless we are disturbed. We had figured on the sun growing cold, but if we are to run out of carbonic acid before the sun winds up its affairs, a little worry will not be amiss. However, everybody will be crazy as a hatter before long, so what does it matter? Ten years ago Forbes Winslow wrote, after studying the human race and the lunacy statistics of a century: "I have no hesitation in stating that the human race has degenerated and is still progressing in a downward direction. We are gradually approaching, with the decadence of youth, a near proximity to a nation of madmen." * * * AS JOYCE KILMER MIGHT HAVE SAID. [Kit Morley in the New York Evening Post.] "_The Chicago Tribune owns forests of pulp wood._" --Full-page advt. I think that I shall never see Aught lovely as a pulpwood tree. A tree that grows through sunny noons To furnish sporting page cartoons. A tree whose fibre and whose pith Will soon be Gumps by Sidney Smith, And make to smile and eke _ha ha!_ go The genial people of Chicago. A tree whose grace, toward heaven rising, Men macerate for advertising-- A tree that lifts her arms and laughs To be made into paragraphs.... How enviable is that tree That's growing pulp for B. L. T. * * *