Book Description:
First printing, November, 1915. Second printing. December. 1915. Third printing, June. 1916. Fourth printing, February, 1920. . CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Journeys to Bagdad The Worst Edition of Shakespeare . 23 111. The Decline of Night Caps . 48 IV. Maps and Rabbit Holes . . 55 V. Tunes for Spring . . 69 VI. Respectfully Submitted To a Mournful Air . 83 VII. The Chilly Presence of Hard headed Persons . 91 VIII. Hoopskirts and Other Lively Matter . . 101 IX. On Traveling . . 115 X. Through the Scuttle with the Tinman . . 125 JOURNEYS To BAGDAD JOURNEYS To BAGDAD Are you of that elect who, at certain seasons of the year perhaps in March when there is timid promise of the spring or in the days of October when there are winds across the earth and gorgeous panic of fallen leaves are you of that elect who, on such occasion or any occasion else, feel stirrings in you to be quit of whatever prosy work is yours, to throw down your book or ledger, or your measuring tape if such device marks your service and to go forth into the world I do count myself of this elect. And I will name such stimuli as most set these stirrings in me. And first of all there is a smell compounded out of hemp and tar that works pleasantly to my undoing. Now it happens that there is in this city, down by the river where it flows black with city stain as though the toes of commerce had been washed therein, a certain ship chandlery. It is filthy coming on the place, for there is reek from the river and staleness from the shops ancient whiffs no wise enfeebled by their longevity, Nestors of their race with span of seventy lusty summers. But these smells do not prevail within the chandlery. At first you see nothing but rope. Besides clothesline and other such familiar and domestic twistings, there are great cordages scarce kinsmen to them, which will later put to sea and will whistle with shrill enjoyment at their release. There are such hooks, swivels, blocks and tackles, such confusion of ships devices as would be enough for the building of a sea tale. It may be fancied that here is Treasure Island itself, shuffled and laid apart in bits like a puzzle picture. For genius, maybe, is but a nimbleness of collocation of such hitherto unconsidered trifles. Then you will go aloft where sails are made, with sailormen squatting about, bronzed fellows, rheumatic, all with pipes. And through all this shop is the smell of hemp and tar. In finer matters I have no nose. It is ridiculous, really, that this very messenger and forerunner of myself, this trumpeter of my coming, this bi nasal fellow in the crows nest should be so deficient. If smells were bears, how often I would be bit My nose may serve by way of ornament or for the sniffing of the heavier odors, yet will fail in the nice detection of the fainter waftings and olfactory ticklings. Yet how will it dilate on the Odyssean smell of hemp and tar And I have no explanation of this, for I am no sailor. Indeed, at sea I am misery itself when ever perchance the ship goes mop with a wiggle between. Such wistful glances have I cast upon the wide freedom of the decks when I leave them on the perilous adventure of dinner So this relish of hemp and tar must be a legacy from a far off time a dim atavism, to put it as hard as possible for I seem to remember being told that my ancestors were once engaged in buccaneering or other valiant liveli hood. But here is a peculiar thing. The chandlery gives me no desire to run away to sea...
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