Tag: 1941 Page 1 of 2

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, January 11, 1941.

“I think,” stated Jimmy Frise, “I have got the world’s troubles solved.”

“Good for you,” I said thinly.

“It came to me just before I fell asleep last night,” said Jimmie. “That’s when I do my best thinking.”

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I warned him. “This snow is getting deeper and the first thing you know…”

“Let me talk,” explained Jim, “and I’ll drive slower. The more intelligently I talk, the slower I drive.”

“Then talk all you like.” I assured him. “Because I don’t like the look of this road, and we’re going into the ditch in a minute if you don’t take it easy. There hasn’t been a car along here since the snow started.”

“Okay,” said Jim, slackening speed and sitting up behind the wheel with an intent expression on his face. “The way I figured it out last night, in that lovely lucid moment just before I fell asleep, was this: it is useless to try to improve the social system. It is human nature we have to improve.”

“Old stuff,” I informed him.

“Maybe it is,” said Jim hotly. “But we’ve got to look at it again. Here we are in an awful mess in the world because of what? Because one section of the world wants to change our system of life and the other section wants to keep the system it has.”

“You haven’t solved anything,” I emitted.

“From the beginning of time,” went on Jim firmly, “men have been experimenting with systems of government. With ways of life. And after trying one system for awhile, there is a terrific convulsion and they start all over again on a new one. It’s been going on for thousands of years.”

“And may it never end,” I prayed.

“It can end, to the complete happiness of all mankind,” cried Jim, “if we will just face one fact. And that fact is, that it is human nature that has to be changed.”

“You might as well try to change jackal nature or weasel nature as try to change human nature,” I stated.

“The day may be almost at hand when we will change,” declared Jim. “This war, if it goes on long enough, may finally shake human nature loose from its basic error. Century after century, we have gone ahead in the firm and unshakeable belief that human nature can not be changed. So we have tried one pitiful scheme after another to work out a way of life that will somehow fit human nature. Our efforts have been tragic and dyed with blood, always. We ought to realize by now that no scheme can be invented to fit human nature as it is. Therefore, human nature has to be altered to fit some simple, ideal scheme.”

To Change Human Nature

“Religion has been trying to do exactly that for five thousand years,” I protested.

“And politics always crowded religion out,” agreed Jim. “The problem has been divided in two. Let religion look after the spiritual welfare of man. And politics will look after his social welfare. That day is ended.”

“Do you mean you’re going to join up church and state again?” I snorted. “It took centuries to divorce them.”

“I’m not interested in organizations,” replied Jim. “There are as many different kinds of political systems as there are religious systems. All I am interested in is human nature. If mankind gets badly enough hurt in this war, I think maybe it will come to the natural conclusion that it is human nature that has to be changed, not any system.”

“People have to have a system,” I cut in.

“That’s the first mistake,” stated Jim. “That’s the mistake at the bottom of the whole shemozzle.”

“We have to have law and order,” I insisted. “And that is the beginning of what finally works out as a government or a social system.”

“You only need law and order,” explained Jimmie, “because human nature has not changed.”

“How,” I scoffed, “are you going to change human nature to the extent that we won’t need law and order?”

“The theory I worked out last night, just before I fell asleep,” said Jim, “is that after this war we will realize for the first time in human history that it is not the system that is wrong. It is us.”

“Well, I must say,” I said, “that you have been driving slower this last half mile. But that’s about all I can say for your theory.”

“You wait,” prophesied Jimmie. “Just you wait. About every thousand years or so, humanity makes one important discovery. We haven’t made any important discoveries for nearly 2,000 years now. America wasn’t any discovery. Steam, electricity, they’re not discoveries in the larger sense. The last great discovery we made was that the pure in heart shall see God. That was 2,000 years ago, less about 30. Since then we have been too busy rooting in the swill tub to look up and see a new truth. But it looks to me, right now, as if the whole human race was about to make another mighty and shaking discovery. And it might well be something about changing human nature instead of changing the system of trying to govern human nature.”

“Watch the road,” I interrupted. “We very nearly went off the shoulder that time.”

“It’s some blizzard, isn’t it?” said Jim, turning the windshield wiper on stronger.

“I wish we had come home last night,” I declared.

“And missed that evening with Aunt Mary and Uncle Ned?” cried Jimmie aghast. “And that dinner? And that midnight visit to the barn with the lantern to see the horses and the cattle bedded down? And that breakfast?”

Driving in a Blizzard

“I hate driving in a blizzard,” I muttered.

“You said, this morning,” accused Jim, “when we left the farm, that you had never experienced a more delightful 24 hours in your life than this visit to Aunt Mary.”

“It’s true,” I admitted. “But I still hate driving in blizzards.”

“You don’t need to spoil everything,” said Jim, “by saying you wish we had left for home last night, that’s all.”

“Okay,” I said, “okay. Keep her in the middle of the road.”

And at a scant 20 miles an hour, we pushed through the ever increasing snow storm, the wind driving the big, heavy flakes against all the car windows. Every mile, the snow on the road grew thicker and drifts began to appear. The farther south we came, the deeper the drifts, as though the blizzard had been raging longer down this way. Few cars met us. None passed us.

“It looks like the annual winter tie-up for these parts,” said Jim. “By tonight, I bet they won’t be able to get through at all.”

“At this speed,” I suggested, “we may not get through ourselves.”

“Do you want me to step on it?” inquired Jim, giving her the gas.

“No, no,” I cried. “Don’t be so touchy. All I was doing was mentioning it. Can’t a guy talk?”

“It’s you that wants to keep the speed down,” said Jim. “And it’s you that wants to bellyache about not getting home.”

“It has not occurred to you, Jim,” I said, “that there is such a thing as being content with something and wanting to be free to complain about it at the same time.”

“It sounds screwy to me,” declared Jim.

“It’s human nature,” I informed him, “at its most human.”

“There’s a village ahead,” said Jim. “What do you say we stop for a few minutes and get warm in the general store?”

“Let’s push on,” I argued, “because every 10 minutes we waste, these drifts are getting bigger.”

“The general store,” said Jim, “is a sort of clearing house for all the news of the township. Maybe the store-keeper can advise us which road to take. Maybe the road we are heading down is badly drifted.”

“We could just pop in for a minute,” I consented.

And it was a welcome break in the slow, tortuous business of driving in a blizzard to enter the cross-roads general store where a warm stove glowed in the midst and eight or 10 other visitors leaned around on the counters or sat on boxes, enjoying the radio which played soft afternoon music.

Jim and I created a little interruption of the quiet scene when we inquired of the storekeeper how the roads were south.

“Well, she’s drifted up pretty bad straight south,” said the merchant. “But it’s just as bad west of here. In fact, I wouldn’t suggest anybody try the road west.”

Several of the other visitors in the store walked over and listened to the discussion. They were all husky, weather-beaten men in heavy coats and ear-flap caps, with that shy look that people from the country and from villages wear. The kind of people who seem to be nursing a secret.

“How About a Shovel?”

“Most of the folks in here,” said the merchant, “are waiting for the weather to clear before pushing on.”

“How about waiting?” inquired Jim of me.

“We might be laid up here all night,” I protested.

“Indeed you might,” agreed one of the others. “I recollect waiting for the blizzard to slow up one time down near Lindsay. It kept on and I was holed up in a little place smaller than this for three whole days.”

“I say we get on, Jim,” I submitted.

“The road straight south,” said the merchant, while the others in the store gathered round in silence, “has two bad drifts on it. One about a mile south of here. And the other about four miles south, along a high hill on the right hand side…”

“How bad are the drifts?” inquired Jim doubtfully.

“Well, I should think there would be a hundred yards of digging on the farthest one,” said the merchant. “You might you might be able to plow through the first one, a mile down.”

“How about a shovel, Jim?” I inquired.

“One thing I never carry in my car,” said Jim, “is a shovel. It gets you into more trouble than anything else you can own.”

And all the folks laughed pleasantly.

“I’ll go halves on a shovel,” I proffered. “I think we ought to push on before it gets too late.”

While we debated, two or three more men stamped into the store and joined our circle. They too listened with interest to the debate between Jim and me and the grocer. But they did not appear to be in any hurry. They just leaned back on the counters and sat on crates and boxes and talked in brief monosyllables and glanced about with shrewd bright eyes. It would have been good to relax as they relaxed: good to sit on a box here in this cozy store while the blizzard raged without, and the static of the storm crackled faintly on the low, muffled music of the radio.

“Here’s a shovel at $1.15¹,” said Jim, coming from the back of the store.

So we bought the shovel between us, and after amiable farewells to the enviable group around the big stove, we pushed out into the blizzard and found our car already blanketed with snow. There were eight other trucks and cars huddled around the side of the general store, with ours.

“It’s only five miles to the highway, Jim,” I reminded him, “and they’ll have it plowed.”

“Keep the shovel handy,” replied Jim, stepping on the gas.

And with a few slews and skids, we got out onto the untrodden road again and at a cautious 20, fared south.

The road was rapidly becoming impassable, as we could well see. The car labored even on the level, and on the slight grades lurched and plunged alarmingly.

“We might better have stayed at that village,” said Jim gloomily.

In about 10 or 15 minutes, we came to the first drift the store-keeper had spoken of. Wind whipped the snow in spirals and drifty clouds. Jim put on dangerous speed and charged the snowbank which was maybe only 20 feet through at its deepest. In about six feet, the car stalled.

“Okay,” said he, “I’ll have to nurse the engine. We don’t want it to choke up. You shovel and I’ll drive her through.”

“We can take turns,” I suggested.

But Jim just raced the engine, for fear it might stall with wind and snow.

It took me a good 50 minutes hard shovelling to clear a path through the 20 feet of drift. Jim edged the car up each yard I gained, and kept the engine racing and idling, but I could see through him.

But Life is Like That

When I finished, and was getting back into the car, I was surprised to see, about 200 yards back up the road, four or five cars lined up and all stopped in a row:

“Why,” I said, “the low down…”

I called Jim’s attention to them.

“They’re following us,” I cried, “and waiting there for us to cut through the drift.”

“There’s no law against it,” said Jim.

“Let them pass us,” I fumed, “before we get to the big drift the store-keeper told us about.”

At 10 miles an hour, we poked along. But the cars behind held their respectful distance. In fact, they allowed the distance to widen between us.

“Stop,” I cried, “and let them pass us.”

So Jim drew carefully to the side of the road. I watched out the back window, and when the first of the following cars came over the rise and saw us, he stopped and the others behind him dutifully stopped too. They were about 300 yards back.

“Jim,” I said, with heat, “this is an outrage.”

“They’re in no hurry,” explained Jim. “They’re just easy-going people in no need to get anywhere in a rush.”

“They deliberately waited in that general store,” I stormed, “for some poor devils like us to come along who are in a hurry, who have to get through.”

“Okay,” said Jim, “what is wrong, then, with them benefitting by our deed? Somebody always has to be first. It’s usually somebody like us, with urgent need shoving us.”

“It’s a dirty trick,” I declared.

“No, life is full of situations like it,” said Jimmie. “The guy who has to do something does it first and shows how. The rest of us follow.”

We drove on. We came to the big drift. At a respectful distance the cars, now nine in number, had patiently followed us, slowing when we slowed, and now stopped.

“Jim,” I demanded, “back the car up to them. They can’t get away. Back the car up to them while I give them a piece of my mind.”

“Look,” said Jim patiently, “what’s wrong with what they’re doing? They’re in no rush. They’ve been waiting, quite pleasantly and happily, for somebody to come along that had to get through. You’re the one that’s in a hurry. Why should they dig out drifts for you?”

“I’m digging out drifts for them,” I shouted.

“So it happens,” agreed Jim. “But every road you travel on was cut through the bush by somebody else, and built and paved and maintained by somebody else – for you. There always have to be first goers. There is always the pioneer.”

So I got out and shovelled. And it was a long, long shovel. Jim came and helped me a couple of times. But he shovels slower than I do, and wants to pause and talk all the time. So I made him get in the car and keep the engine warm by creeping after me as I dug.

“You sure have to change human nature,” I yelled at him, when the idea recurred to me.

“Yep,” called back Jim, “and the question is: shall we make the slow pokes move faster? Or will we slow down those who are forever in a hurry?”

Editor’s Note:

1. $1.15 in 1941 would be $21.40 in 2024. ↩︎

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, March 28, 1936.

“This ice going out,” said Jimmie Frise, all over Canada, all over Siberia, all over the world, this vast, plunging, crushing volume of power and force going to waste…”

“These gutters,” I added, “these rain pipes, these ditches along the roads, everywhere.”

“Waste, waste,” said Jim. “If humanity only knew how to harness all the forces of Nature, nobody would have to work.”

“In this little rushing rivulet along the curb,” I contributed, “is enough power to light all the electric light fixtures in my house.”

“We talk of horsepower,” scoffed Jimmie, grandly. “Why, there is mountain power going to waste these days in a million rivers of the world. Mountain power, in these freshets.”

“But on account of the hunks of ice,” I pointed out, “it might be a little awkward trying to hook it up to a dynamo or whatever you call it.”

“Awkward,” cried Jimmie. “Just because a thing looks difficult, we shy at it. That’s the reason mankind hasn’t conquered the forces of this world ages ago. That’s why we are still slaves.”

“Do you suppose we could get enough power out of anything to write our articles and draw our pictures for us?” I asked. “It is all very well to talk about machines freeing men. That may help out the mechanics and farmers. But us poor writers and artists will still be in the same old boat.”

“You have the habit,” said Jim, “of sort of picking at an argument, sort of scratching at it with the fingernails of your mind. Why don’t you join in with me in a conversation like this and let us get somewhere. I was saying, why don’t we start to use the power that is going to waste on all sides of us?”

“Personally,” I said, “I think we are doing very nicely.”

“By a little use of our brains,” said Jim, “we might think of some way of harnessing some force of nature, now going to waste, that would set us free forever of doing anything.”

“We can’t compete with trained engineers,” I pointed out.

“Trained engineers,” Jim stated, “are trained to believe in what can’t be done, rather than what can be done. Was Stephenson an engineer? – the man who invented steam engines?”

“That’s so,” I confessed.

“Was Newton an engineer?” demanded Jim. “The man who invented gravity? Was Harvey an engineer? the man who invented the circulation of the blood.”

“He didn’t invent it,” I disagreed. “It had been circulating all the time. He only discovered it.”

“That’s my point exactly,” cried Jim. “These tremendous forces of nature are going on all around us, wastefully, uselessly. All we have to do is see how they can be used. And we don’t need to be engineers either.”

“I wish I could think up something,” I assured him. “I have often thought we ought to have some kind of a little machine attached to our knees, a sort of generator so that, as we walked, we could charge a battery in our pocket. If everybody in the world wore a gadget like that, we could certainly store up an awful lot of electricity.”

“That’s an idea,” encouraged Jim.

To Patent the Invention

“Each day, at five o’clock,” I warmed up, “everybody would turn their battery in at the local electric station, sort of like cigar stores located all over the place. And on receiving the charged battery, the service station would hand us out a new empty battery for tomorrow.”

Perfect,” said Jim. “You’ve got something.”

“Say we each charged one volt into that battery,” I explained, “on the average. Although policemen and postmen would charge much more. We could give them bigger batteries to charge. Well, anyway, in a city like Toronto, that would be nearly 700,000 volts of electricity stored up every day, and immediately contributed to the power, lighting and heating of the city.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Jim, “that you are another Stephenson or a Farragut.”

“Just a simple little device,” I explained. “A small metal rod attached at the knee by a sort of garter to each leg, the two rods meeting in the middle in a small generator about the size of a walnut or an apple. It might be at little awkward at first to walk with these things on. Sort of bow-legged, or waddling maybe. But we would soon get used to it. At each step, these rods would drive the small generator, like the drive shaft, in miniature, of a locomotive.”

“Let’s patent it,” said Jim.

“I hardly think,” I surmised, “it is ready for patenting.”

“Don’t be crazy,” cried Jim. “That’s the way fortunes are lost. When you get an idea, seize it. Patent it. The real thinkers of this world are all poor men just because they didn’t protect their ideas. They let human weasels steal their stuff.”

“We have to have a working model,” I said.

“Any electrician could make it,” said Jim. “Don’t explain what it is for. Just give him the specifications. Make a drawing. He’ll never guess what it is. And there you are.”

“I’m not just sure,” I confessed, “how many steps or movements of the leg it will take to charge one volt. I was just making a supposition there, when I said one volt.”

“Now, now,” admonished Jim. “Don’t start backing and filling. The idea is what counts. I see mountainous force going to waste in spring freshets all over the world, but I can’t think up any practical scheme for harnessing it. You see vast sources of power going to a waste in the motion of the human leg. But… but, my dear boy, you see at a glance the solution of it. It is vision that counts in this world. Not the poor mechanics of it.”

“Very well,” I said. “I’ll sketch it out. Let’s see: how does a car charge its battery?”

“The motion of the engine operates the generator.”

“Then,” I said, incisively, “the motion of the leg will operate the generator, which will be supported between the knees by two rods attached to the knee joint.”

“Correct,” said Jim.

And after supper, we walked over to the corner and saw our local electrician, but when he studied my drawings, simple as they were he said they were a little out of his line. He sticks to installing fixtures and mending door bells. He thought maybe a radio man might tackle it.

“What’s it for?” he inquired.

“It’s an invention,” I explained. “A little idea of mine.”

“Little idea, huh,” said Jim darkly.

A Very Wonderful Room

“If it’s an invention,” said the electrician, “there is a man upstairs, he rents my attic, and he’s an inventor. He makes all kinds of things. I bet he’d be the very man for you.”

“Steer clear of other inventors,” said Jim, quietly. “They’d steal your idea.”

“Oh, no,” said the electrician. “This man is the gentlest little fellow. He wouldn’t steal anything. He doesn’t even want anything. Why, he has invented thousands of things, and never sold a single one yet.”

“How does he live?” I asked.

“His relatives give him so much money a month to live somewhere else,” said the electrician. “I don’t mind him. Even if he does make some awful smashes and things.”

“Smashes?” asked Jim, always interested in action.

“He invented a thing last year,” said the electrician, “for catching your dog when it runs away from you and won’t come back when it’s called. You know? He says he has so often seen old ladies frantically trying to call their little dogs back to them and the dog won’t come. So he invented a thing for catching dogs that won’t come back.”

“Mmmm, mmmm,” said Jim, interestedly.

“Yes, siree,” said the electrician. “It was a great thing. He was going to give me one of the first ones manufactured, for a month’s rent. But my goodness.”

“What,” we both said.

“The day he perfected his working model,” said the electrician, “he got me up to witness the first operation of it. My, my. I was standing in the room, by the door, see? And he sprung the trigger. And the thing caught him instead of the imitation dog he had made out of a pillow. And it threw him right out the attic window and held him suspended in space until I could go around to the hardware store and borrow two ladders.”

“Indeed,” said I.

“I like the sound of this man,” said Jim. “I think we should see him. I think he could easily make a model of your machine.”

“I’ll think it over,” I said.

But Jim was impatient. He said no progress was ever made in this world if people hummed and hawed all the time. He said if Diogenes had only gone on with his barrel idea, they would have had motor cars in ancient Greece two thousand years ago. And look how far ahead we would be now?

So the electrician ushered us upstairs two flights to the attic.

“Be careful,” he warned us. “He has an automatic door opener that works when you push the bell, but unfortunately, the door opens out. You have to reach away out, push the bell and then jump quickly back.”

Jim did so, reaching far. The attic door burst open violently.

“Come in?” said a mild voice.

And we stepped cautiously into a very curious room. The inventor sat at a desk at the far end, a small elderly little man with thin wispy whiskers, glasses resting right on the end of his nose, and a look about him as if Santa Claus had had an older brother who never had the meals Santa Claus had, nor the opportunities in life.

The room was too wonderful and fearful to take in, even in many long steady glances. Things new and old, like cow bells old and green and bright new squares of oil cloth suspended like banners from the wall, and all colors of the rainbow. There were chairs built in curious sections, like easy chairs, only they looked dreadfully uneasy, as if they might, at a sharp word, either collapse entirely or close up like a book.

“Come in, gentlemen, come in,” said the old inventor, kindly. “What can I do for you?”

There were test tubes dusty and filled with forgotten liquids; baskets of empty bottles, a weird-looking machine like a gum slot, with a pair of rubber lips, shaped like human lips, and over the slot a sign reading: “Lipstick your lips, any shade, 1c.”

There were baby carriages with engines on them and a human figure made of the stuff store window dummies are made of, and it was covered with a sort of fuzz, light blue.

“Be seated, gentlemen,” said the inventor, indicating the chairs. Jim cautiously eased himself into one of the curiously jointed chairs. Nothing happened. So I got into another, and immediately a phonograph began playing “I’ll See You in My Dreams.”

I sat up, but the old gentleman, delighted beyond measure, assured me:

“Aha, you’re astonished, sir. That is my slumber chair. Adjustable to any angle. And will play any record.”

“And my friend’s chair?” said I.

“Ah, that is a masterpiece,” said the old fellow, “a masterpiece. Now, sir, just to demonstrate, will you be so good as to lift your feet and place them on the edge of my table. Please. I will not mind. Just put your heels on my desk, there.”

Jim obliged.

The instant his feet touched the edge of the table, the chair slowly began to collapse, not suddenly, but, with creaks and squeaks, gently began lowering itself flat on the ground, with the painful but certain slowness of those freight elevators you sometimes meet up with in warehouses.

Jim leaped out of the chair in time to save being dropped to the floor, where the chair subsided in complete exhaustion.

“That,” said the old gentleman, “is my solution of one of the nastiest problems of modern business. The person who comes into your office and sets his feet on your desk.”

“Wonderful,” said Jim, sitting down on the edge of a box.

“What is that human figure in blue fuzz?” I inquired.

“The time has come,” said the old gentleman, “in fact it had come some thirty years ago when I invented that thing, when we humans need no longer be bothered with all the fuss and fatigue of dressing. Do you realize, sir, that the average man has to put on thirty-nine different articles of clothing before he can go out?”

“You see before you,” said the old gentleman, “the perfect solution of a modern problem. It is the Asbestos Dip. Perfectly insulating. Warm in winter, cool in summer. You can set up a small tank in your boudoir. Asbestos Dip may be purchased in any fashionable color, brown, blue, tweed, and so forth. And all you do, whenever you feel like it, is dip yourself in the tank, and there you are, newly clothed for a week, or a month, whichever you require.”

“But, er, ah,” said Jim.

“I know, I know,” hastened the old gentleman. “You are thinking of the bath. But you forget that, being perfectly insulated, you neither perspire nor get goose pimples. We require baths, why? Only because our clothes cause us to exude moisture, and because our clothes being porous, with gaps, openings, slits and apertures in them, permit dust and dirt to come in contact with our bodies. Asbestos Dip being perfectly impenetrable, even by the finest dust, keeps the human body as clean and pure as the hide of a bear keeps the body of the bear.”

He explained the baby carriage, the bells, the roller skates under a curling stone for curling in the summer, the real dog which could be trained to serve as an iron dog on the lawns of old-fashioned homes, the door bell that could be so adjusted, on going out for the day, to squirt ink on all callers so that you could later know who had been to visit you in your absence: the lipstick vendor, a magnificent device which would enable young ladies, anywhere, to dress their lips simply by briefly kissing a pair of rubber lips on the slot machine.

“There would be six sizes of lips on the machine,” explained the dear old man, “representing all the standard sizes and shapes of mouths. On putting one cent in the slot and pressing the button of the size and color you want, the lips protrude from the machine, you kiss the rubber lips and presto, as simply as a rubber stamp, you have your lips perfectly rouged. Isn’t that a caution?”

And it sure was. So we got down to work, and I showed him my drawings. He studied them intently. I told him, as far as I dared, just how the little generator was to have the two small rods working, attached to garters.

Suddenly the old chap’s face lighted up.

“My dear sir,” he cried. “Of all the coincidences! Why, this is the very core of my famous invention of 1903, called the “1903 leg-action generator.’ I had the most wonderful scheme for putting Niagara Falls back where it belongs as a beauty spot. Wait till I get my model.”

He came back, carrying a little jigger with two rods and two gentleman’s garters.

“See,” he said, strapping the garters on, and suspending the generator between his knees so that the two rods were fastened to his knee joints.

“Did it work?” I asked, numbly.

“We made the dreadful discovery,” said the little man, “that the entire human race is either bow-legged or knock-kneed. The bow-legged ones had a lateral action that wouldn’t work the rods at all. And the knock-kneed ones couldn’t get the generator between their knees. Strong men, who were backing me in that invention, broke down and wept like children when we made that discovery. Still, so it goes. Nothing is ever lost. One discovery leads to another.”

We said good-day.

“Well,” I said, when we got outside, “now we can turn our minds to the ice going out.”

“Aw,” said Jim, “the heck with it. Let it go to waste. We’ve got too much power in the world as it is.”

So we went down a few stores to where they have this year’s seed catalogues spread out in the window, all the different pages showing, zinnias, nasturtiums, beets, mammoth oats, everything.

Editor’s Notes: This story has a lot of the early 20th century notion that nature needs to be exploited and harnessed to do humanity’s bidding. It was also before it was realized that asbestos was toxic.

The various “inventors” mentioned included George Stephenson, Isaac Newton, William Harvey, and Diogenes. When “Farragut” was mentioned, I think they meant Michael Faraday. David Farragut was a United States Admiral during the U.S. Civil War.

The story was repeated on February 1, 1941. It was unusual in that they even repeated the same drawing and title.

By Gregory Clark, Illustrated by James Frise, April 5, 1941.

“Are you busy?” inquired Jimmie Frise over the telephone.

“I’m just studying the seed catalogues,” I replied.

“I wonder would you drive down for a minute,” said Jim, “and take me over to the watch repair man’s?”

“Jim, my car’s in the repair shop,” I informed him rather comfortably, because it was a rotten day out. April showers. Cold sleet, in other words. In this country it is May showers bring June flowers.

“The kids have my car out,” grumbled Jim, “and they won’t be home till late.”

“Sorry, Jim,” I said. “I left my car in this morning for that spring overhaul. You know. The one they describe in the circular they send around. Your car needs spring cleaning.'”

“You’re falling for everything,” laughed Jim. “Circulars about your car. Seed catalogues.”

“It’s in the air, Jim,” I assured him. “Everybody’s restless at this time of year. What are you falling for? What do you want to drive to the watch repair man’s for? Why can’t you walk?”

“It’s our clock,” explained Jim. “I’m sick and tired of sitting here looking at a clock that not only isn’t running; it hasn’t run for six years. And I just suddenly decided to have it fixed.”

“Aha,” I crowed. “So you’ve got the spring bug, too.”

“That fool clock,” said Jim, “has been sitting on the mantel now ever since 1935 and it hasn’t uttered a tick. There in its place of honor, on the mantel, presiding over my household, it sits at two minutes to two. I’ve looked at it thousands of times. My family has done the same. It is always two to two.”

“I hate to see your high purpose come to nothing, Jim,” I urged. “Couldn’t you carry it over to the watch repair man? It’s only three or four blocks.”

“It’s too measly a day,” said Jim. “It’s raining. And while it’s not a heavy clock, it would be an awkward package to carry on a day like this.”

“Jim,” I egged him on, “maybe this impulse to have that clock fixed may never come again for another six years. I know this feeling. It passes very quickly.”

“I’ve had it dozens of times before,” confessed Jim. “But it never was strong enough to make me take the blame clock over. And now, when I haven’t a car and your car is in the repair shop, I’ve got the urge stronger than it’s ever been.”

“But not strong enough to make you carry it over,” I submitted.

“Maybe if you came with me I’d carry it,” wheedled Jimmie.

“It’s pouring rain,” I retorted. “And I’m just at the zinnias.”

“April showers,” pleaded Jim.

“Ice water,” I corrected.

Restlessness of Spring

And we hung up. But it only takes a little while to come to the end of a seed catalogue. Even if you take your pencil and mark with an X the ones you are going to get plants of and a V for the ones you are going to get seeds for, in about 15 minutes you come to the vegetables at the back. Then you get up and go to the back dining-room window and look out at the winter-killed garden, all full of mud and patches of ice in the lee and broken hockey sticks and half-buried rusty snow shovels. And what is more natural than that you should realize that it is a long time yet to the 24th of May and the planting of the garden?

Besides, the rain looks as if it were slackening.

So I put my coat on and an old hat and walked down to Jimmie’s.

“I’ve been sitting here expecting you,” he grinned.

“The heck you have,” I retorted. “I hadn’t the faintest intention of coming.”

“But you’re here,” cried Jim. “It’s the spring.”

“I don’t like people to be able to read my mind,” I informed him. “Or my character either.”

“I knew you’d come,” stated Jim, “because you are restless and impulsive like everybody and everything else at this time of year. Nature makes us all impulsive and restless in April. How else would all the June marriages take place if everybody didn’t go suddenly impulsive about the first of April?”

“I’d hate to understand everything the way you do,” I assured him. “Is this the clock?”

“And a lot heavier than I suspected,” said Jim.

I lifted the clock off the mantel. It weighed about 12 or 15 pounds.

“What a brute,” I exclaimed. “You couldn’t carry that.”

“We could carry it between us,” submitted Jim, “but it would be awkward walking half-sideways for four blocks with that thing between us. But I’ve thought up an idea while I was waiting for you. There’s an old baby carriage down cellar.”

“Then you don’t need me,” I said hastily. “You can wheel it over yourself.”

“You’ll help me carry the baby carriage up from the cellar?” inquired Jim.

“Certainly,” I agreed. “But you don’t catch me perambulating through the streets with a clock in a baby carriage. Not at my age. I mean, after all, there is a little dignity …”

“Now, look here,” protested Jimmie. “What’s wrong with pushing a baby carriage through the streets with a clock in it? What’s the difference what you’ve got in the baby carriage?”

“Jim,” I declared firmly, “a baby carriage is a baby carriage. It is dedicated to a high and sacred purpose. I gave up pushing baby carriages many years ago. I don’t expect to start again until my grandchildren begin to arrive. And then I’ll not only do it gladly; I’ll do it proudly. But in the meantime I don’t propose to go through the streets of my own neighborhood like a peddler shoving a barrow.”

“Just walk beside me,” insisted Jimmie.

“No, Jim, no,” I said emphatically. It wouldn’t look dignified, the two of us using a baby carriage for a wheelbarrow. No, sir.”

“You’re a snob,” accused Jim.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m a snob.”

“Thousands of people use baby carriages for carrying parcels,” pleaded Jim. “Every Saturday afternoon you’ll see hundreds of young couples out shopping with their baby and the carriage filled with parcels.”

“Ah, that’s different,” I said. “I don’t know why it is different. But the very idea of us using a baby carriage as a parcel carrier seems to me infra dig.”

“Well,” said Jim with finality, “I fail to see it. There is an old baby carriage in almost every cellar in the world. Put down there to keep in case some other member of the family might want it. But when it is wanted, no new parent would even look at a second-hand pram. There always has to be a new one. So all over the world are these little and highly useful vehicles lying in cobwebs and coal dust.”

“It can’t be helped,” I insisted.

“Well, there’s a war on,” stated Jim. “And we’re going to see a lot of funny things before it’s over. We are going to see people casting silly pride aside. We’re going to see old clothes worn with pride and baby carriages used for wheelbarrows. For I’m going to take my clock over to the watch repair shop in the pram. And there is no reason on earth, intelligent or otherwise, why I shouldn’t use a baby carriage to carry bundles. It has wheels. Okay. I wheel it.”

So I took off my coat and went down cellar with Jim and found the old baby carriage in behind stacks of stored garden furniture and curtain stretchers and retired iron beds and things. And we worked it out and dusted it off and carried it upstairs.

Jim lifted the clock and set it in the pram.

“Look,” said Jim. “What better vehicle could be imagined than this pram for carrying so delicate an instrument as a clock? See this little mattress? See those big soft springs? Why, it’s ideal for transporting clocks. Even a $2,000 car would jolt the stuffing out of a clock, as compared with the soft ride it’ll get in here.”

“Quite so,” I said drily, putting on my coat.

Jim went and got a couple of small tablecloths and a bridge table cover and tucked them over the clock.

“Ha,” I scoffed. “Weakening, eh? Trying to pretend it is a baby?”

“Certainly not,” said Jim. “I am just protecting the clock from the rain.”

I looked out. It had begun its weary April drizzle again.

“Turn that hood up well over it,” I suggested. “You don’t want a good clock all stained and wet.”

So while Jim was getting his coat on, I undid the little screws that hold the hood and turned it up so as to protect thoroughly the contents of the carriage. I altered the covers a little, tucking them down around the foot of the carriage and creating a lifelike illusion of a baby stowed within.

“There,” I said. “That’s realistic enough.”

“Help me down the steps with it,” said Jim.

So I took the front end and helped him lower the carriage down the front steps.

Then, since I was going his way as far as my house, I could not do other than walk with him as he pushed the pram along. After all, there was no way of telling, from appearances, that there was a clock in the carriage. The only thing that occurred to me was that if any of the neighbors saw Jimmie pushing a pram it might inspire some lively curiosity. I caught Jimmie casting a few slantwise glances at the windows of his immediate neighbors.

But half way up the block we encountered an elderly couple, a man and wife, walking under the one umbrella. And the way they stood aside for us, and the warm, friendly smiles they bestowed on us, trying to get a glimpse of the little one within as we went by, was quite gratifying. There is, after all nothing so flattering to people of 50 as to have people of 70 mistake them for youngsters.

Protests and Explanations

“I’ll stick with you, Jim,” I assured him as we went on.

“You don’t have to,” replied Jim. “I can get along very nicely.”

“You’d do as much for me,” I insisted.

As a matter of fact, despite the drizzle of rain, we got quite a kick pushing that pram. At the street crossings I got hold of it myself, and when Jim lighted a cigarette I had it all to myself and shoved it at least three or four doors along. It was years and years since I had felt a pram jouncing and smoothly rolling before me. Nice feeling.

When we turned on to the shopping street it began to rain a little heavier.

“Only a block more,” said Jim.

But an elderly lady barred our way.

“Tssk, tssk,” she said, smiling benignly. “You’ll soak the child. Don’t you men know how to tuck …”

She had shoved back the hood and lifted the table cover. And was looking with horror into the face of the clock.

Then she stared, with incredible suspicion on her face for so elderly and kindly a lady, at us.

Like a traffic cop, she signalled the doorman of the movie theatre to come to her aid: had sent a boy on a bicycle down the street for a policeman; and had 40 people in a tight ring around us so that we could neither escape nor make our protests and explanations heard above the loud murmur.

“Imagine,” said the elderly lady. “Making off with a clock! I’ve heard of them making off with a pound of butter. Or a can of peas. But a clock!”

“Slickest scheme I ever saw,” said the movie doorman. And others gave similar summaries, while Jimmie and I tried vainly to locate one neighborly face to whom we could explain that we were on the way to the watch repair shop.

At first the policeman was inclined to look upon us as guilty until proven innocent. But we produced our registration cards, drivers permits, letters, bills, receipts; and then the girl in the movie ticket window, who couldn’t resist the excitement any longer, came out and identified us as a couple of regular customers for years past, though she didn’t know our names. Finally a grocery messenger boy wheeled in and positively identified us. The policeman accompanied us down to the watch repair shop. And the man there knew us well.

So all was well except for one thing.

“You can push it home alone, Jim,” I assured him. “After all, snobbery is just another name for the respect for a certain type of law or convention. A baby carriage is for babies.”

However, the movie got out just then and in the crowd we saw two little neighbor girls from only a couple of doors away from Jimmie’s. And we hailed them and asked them if they would like to wheel the baby carriage back home for us.

Which they were vastly delighted to do.

With the little girls walking ahead, in the most ladylike, the most motherly air you ever saw, we followed slowly.

And so back home and down again into the cellar, behind the iron bed and the curtain stretchers and the garden furniture, went the baby carriage once more.

Editor’s Notes: “In the lee” means next to something. “Infra dig” means demeaning.