Even the children have caught the
spirit. I was just leaving my house the other day when a palatial
automobile stopped at the gate and a very perfect chauffeur alighted and
touched his cap. "Madam," he said, "I have come for a case of empty
bottles that Master John says your little boy promised him for the Red
Cross." There was a trace of embarrassment in his manner, but there was
none in mine as I led him to the cellar and watched with satisfaction
while he clasped a cobwebby box of--dare I whisper it?--empty beer
bottles to his immaculate chest and eventually stowed it in the
exquisite interior of the limousine. How wonderful of the Red Cross to
want my bottles, and how intelligent of my "little boy" to arrange the
matter so pleasantly!
To do away with the needless accumulations of life, or better still, not
to let them accumulate, what a comfort that would be! Letters? The fire
as rapidly as possible! No one ought to have a good time reading over
old letters--there's always a tinge of sadness about them, and it's
morbid to conserve sadness, added to which, in the remote contingency of
one's becoming famous, some vandalish relative always publishes the ones
that are most sacred.
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