ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN

He was a burly Dutch tenor,
And I patiently trailed him in his waking and sleeping hours
That I might not lose a story,
But his life was commonplace and unimaginative
Air raids and abdications kept his activities,
(A game of bridge yesterday, a ride to Tarrytown),
Out of the papers.
I watchfully waited,
Yearning a coup that would place him on the
Musical map.
A coup, such as kissing a Marshal Joffre,
Aeroplaning over the bay,
Diving with Annette Kellerman.
Then for three days I quit the city
To get a simple contralto into the western papers.
Returning I entered my office; the phone jangled.
The burly tenor was tearfully sobbing and moaning over the wire;
Tremor and emotion choked his throat.
This was his ominous message:
A taxicab accident almost had killed him two and one half days ago;
He had escaped with his body and orchid-lined voice
And not a line in the mornings or evenings!
What could I do about it?
Accidents will happen.

THE BARITONE

He was a wonderful Metropolitan singer.
His name had been blazoned over these United States,
And in Europe it was as well known.
Records of him could be bought in the smallest hamlet;
Nothing but praise had been shed upon the glory of his name.
In May he was scheduled to sing in Chicago
At a festival where thousands were to foregather
To do praise to him and his voice.
Two days before he left, he came to his manager’s office
With a sickly expression all over his rotund face
And a deathly gasp in his voice.
One thought he needed a doctor,
Or the first aid of some Red Cross nurses.
He was ushered into the private office
To find out his trouble.
This was his lament in short;
A friend, in the hurry of the moment,
Had procured tickets for him on the Twentieth Century
Which demanded an extra fare of six dollars,
And he wanted to ride on the cheapest train.
So we got him tickets on another road
Which takes thirty six hours to Chicago and perhaps more,
And the great singer, whose name has been blazoned over these United States
And was as well known in Europe,
Walked out contented and smiling like a young boy.

PATRIOTISM

The patriotic orchestra of eighty five men
Was keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitch
For these were patriotic concerts,
Supported by the leading patriots of the town,
(Including a Bulgarian merchant, an Austrian physician and a German lawyer),
And all the musicians were getting union wages and in the summer at that.
So they were patriotic too.
The Welsh conductor was also patriotic,
For his name on the program was larger than that of the date or the hall,
But when the manager asked him to play a number
Designated as “Dixie,”
He disposed of it shortly with the words:
“It is too trivial that music.”
And, instead, he played a lullaby by an unknown Welsh composer,
(Because he was a Welshman)....
The audience left after the concert was over
And complimented itself individually and collectively on “doing its bit”
By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts.

THE PILLOW CASES

The train was due to arrive at eleven that night,
But owing to the usual delay it did not arrive until one.
The reporters of the leading dailies
Were still waiting grouchily on the station platform for the great star.
For weeks his name had blotted out every bare wall,
And the date sheets of his coming had reddened the horizon.
Now he steps off the train, tired and disgruntled.
What cares he for the praise of the public and their prophets
Awaiting him impatiently at the station?
It’s a bed he wants any bed will do;
The quicker he gets it, the better for the song on the morrow.
But in cooking the news for the public
One a.m. is the same thing as noon day.
So they rushed the star with these questions:
“Not conscripted yet?...”
“How do you like this town?...”
“Will you give any encores tomorrow?...”
“When will the war end?...”
Ruthlessly he plowed through them,
Like a British tank at Messines.
The tenor wanted a bed,
But Lesville wanted a story....
On the platform patiently nestled were twenty six pieces of luggage,
Twenty six pieces of luggage, containing more than their content,
Twenty six pieces of luggage would get him the story, he had not given himself.
Craftily, one lured the reporters to look on this bulging baggage,
“Pillows and pillows and pillow....” was whispered,
“Tonight he will sleep on them.”
Vulture-like swooped down the porters,
Bearing them off to the taxis.
Next morning the papers carried the story:
“Singer Transports His Own Bedding,”
But the artist slept soundly on Ostermoors that night.
The baggage held scores for the orchestra.

BETTER INDUSTRIAL RELATIONS

He was the head of a large real estate firm,
And his avocation was seeking the good in a Better Industrial Relations Society.
They were going to have an exhibit in their church building,
At which it was to be proved
That giving a gold watch for an invention
That made millions for the factory owner
Was worthwhile.
But they needed a press agent
To let the world and themselves
Know that what they were doing was good.
I was chosen for the work,
But the head of the large real estate firm
Thought that half a column a day was too little
To record the fact that a cash register company
In which he owned stock
Had presented a medal to an employee who had remained with them
At the same salary for fifteen years.
So he had me fired.
And the Better Industrial Relations Exhibit was a great success.
And many of the morning and evening newspapers
Ran editorials about it.

THE PRIMA DONNA

She had been interviewed at all possible times,
And sometimes the interviews came at impossible ones;
But it did not matter to her
As long as the stories were printed and her name was spelt correctly.
So we sent a photographer to the hotel one day
To take pictures of her in her drawing room.
He was an ungentle photographer
Who had been accustomed to take pictures of young women
Coming into the harbor on shipboard, and no photograph was complete
Without limbs being crossed or suchwise.
But she did not mind even that,
If the pictures were published the next day.
He took a great number of her in her salon,
And departed happy at the day’s bagging.
A great international disturbance reduced all the white space available
And no photographs were printed the next day
Of the prima donna.
And when I met her at rehearsal, she said very shortly:
“Je vous ne parle plus” and looked at me harshly.
Was I to blame for the international situation?

PRESS STORIES

Though bandsmen’s notes from the street below resound,
And the voices of jubilant masses proclaim a glorious holiday,
I painstakingly pick out words on the typewriter,
By fits and starts, thinking up a story about the great Metropolitan tenor.
The typewriter keys now hold no rhythmic tingle.
But the local manager in Iowa wants the story.
He has engaged the great tenor for a date next March
When the Tuesday musicale ladies give their annual benefit for the Shriners.
He wants the concert to be such a success,
That his Iowan town will henceforth be in the foreground
Of Iowan towns, as far as music is concerned.
So he has wired in for this tale about the singer,
A story about his wife and baby, and what the baby eats per diem.
And though the call is to the street below,
Where jubilant masses proclaim the holiday,
I must finish the story about the tenor’s wife and baby
To put the Iowan town in the foreground, as far as music is concerned.

THE DISTRIBUTION OF CREDIT

The Irish prize play had come back to Broadway.
Where to put the credit? On the astute manager
Who saw in it
A year of Broadway, two of stock, eternity in the movies;
Or the League of Public Spirited Women
Banded together to uplift the Drama
That was the question stirring dramatic circles and the public.
It had failed in its first run of three weeks at an uptown theatre
Miserably,
Despite glowing reviews in all the dailies.
But this come-back
At a Broadway theatre, with electric lights, and transient crowds
That would save it
Was the universal verdict.
During the first week there was a tremendous fight
Between the two factions for the
Distribution of credit, and some critics said
The League of Public Spirited Women was responsible
For bringing the play back, because they had bulletined it,
And others said it was the astute manager.
But no audience came to the play after the second week.
And it went to the storehouse.
No one fought any longer for
The distribution of credit.

TEARS

Beads of perspiration on a hot summer’s afternoon,
A hurry call from the Ritz,
Thoughts of plastering the city in half an hour,
With twenty-four sheets and large heralds,
And a page or two in all the dailies....
She sat in a sumptuous suite at the Ritz,
Discussing with her husband,
Who had just returned from the beagles in South Carolina
Her new pet charity;
And she had called me in at this very moment,
Because she had struck a snag.
This was her charity:
She related with tears in her eyes,
What was she to do about it?
She received no response from the American public.
The poor assistant stagehands of the Paris theatres
They were out of work destitute
The theatres closed and all the actors at the front.
But what could be done for them, the poor Paris stagehands?
That was her query.
And tears welled up in her eyes, as she spoke
While her husband chased the Angora from under the sofa
I sat and discussed the question.
And tears came to my eyes,
But my tears were wept for another reason.

PHOTOGRAPHS

I had ordered the photographs of the prima donna.
They are lovely and beautiful to behold and they are printed before me in magazine.
Her madonna like face sheds radiance on the prospective box-office patron;
He is dazzled by her sun-like head of hair;
He loses his heart and his pocket-book when he glances on them.
I felt happy that I changed photographers.
I felt that my discovery of a new artisan of the sensitized plate
Would bring glory and money to many.
I sit by the rolltop desk and pull out again the objects of my praises.
The telephone bell rings and awakens me from my reveries,
It is the voice of the beautiful prima donna herself;
But the melodious notes the critics have praised are changed.
There is a raucous, strident tone in the voice;
It sounds like the rasping bark of the harpies.
“How dare you use those terrible photographs?”
“What do you mean by insulting my beauty?”
There is a slam down of the telephone receiver,
I turn to my work of writing an advertisement about the prima donna’s voice.