Chapter D: G. W

_Editor’s Table_

*** *** *** *** *** ***
*** MOCKTURNe ***
*** It wAs aA furRy foreSt ***
*** Where sCorching kisSes greW ***
*** But lIttle miCeys barKed ***
*** At ME ***
*** onE oNe One ***
*** two 2 ***
*** 30c ***
*** *** *** *** *** ***

“That,” said Han proudly, as he surveyed his handiwork, “is probably not only the greatest Editor’s Table ever written, ‘above all Greek, above all Roman fame’, it is also without doubt the most sublime Editor’s Table which will ever be written. It—”

“It looks like the Union Jack with an advertisement printed in the middle of it,” interrupted Mr. and Mrs. Stevens in chorus, “and _that_ is not allowed by the Department of Internal Revenue. See Bulletin 12345678909876543210 X.” And Mrs. Stevens triumphantly produced the document in question from her reticule.

“Ut qwong qwong! Jui day tong? Ut shaa maan! Jup bun long?” replied Han tersely. (For he always resorted to Chinese in moments of excitement.)

“Oh,” said Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, Ariel, and Cherrywold.

“Yes,” said Han, dropping into the vernacular, “but even that is not its chief advantage. Inspect it carefully, gentlemen. Not even in the celebrated ‘Forties’ referred to by our recent and acrimonious reviewer was there ever an Editor’s Table so magnificently devoid not only of sense but even of the slightest trace of meaning. It combines Da-Daism, Secessionism, Futurism, Patism and Presentism—”

“And pessimism?” suggested Mr. Stevens, already to protest if that should be the case.

“Wait!” thundered Ariel. “I believe there’s some meaning in this, after all!”

“There isn’t,” said Mrs. Stevens firmly. “If it isn’t the Union Jack, it’s just hen tracks.”

“Nothing of the sort!” said Rabnon. “I see your point, Ariel. As the poem advances, a capital letter is advanced one space in each word up to ‘ME’. That’s all capitals; and then the capitals recede until ‘two’ is all small letters, and ‘2’ is just a numeral. Evidently it’s one of those exotic poems of passion that blow first hot and then cold.”

“‘Scorching kisSes’ _does_ sound pretty hot,” said Mr. Stevens, beginning to take an interest. Whereat Mrs. Stevens had to be forcibly restrained from tearing up the whole Table.

“And look at that first line,” suggested Cherrywold, when the hubbub had subsided. “‘It wAs aA furRy foreSt’. Take that with the second, and if you don’t get just the feeling of kissing the bearded lady of a circus I miss my guess.”

“It means no such thing!” said Han. “I told you it doesn’t mean anything. Just because you may be reminded—”

But by then Mrs. Stevens had gotten out of hand again.

“‘lIttle miCeys’!” she shrieked. “Does that mean ‘little mice’? I’m going home! An Editor’s Table where the bearded lady of a circus is kissed by a man who is frightened by seven mice who bark at him is no place for a lady!”

“That’s a rather involved sentence,” said Rabnon oracularly. “But do you know, I believe Madame Stevens has hit upon the correct interpretation.”

“And of course the man felt like ‘30c’,” added Cherrywold. “A very realistic touch. But I thought you said your Editor’s Table was so remarkable, Han, because it didn’t mean anything. The joke’s on you.”

“I did, and it is, and it doesn’t, and as for the joke, that’s a serious matter,” said

HAN.