excerpts: PATRIOTISM by EDWARD L. BERNAYS The patriotic orchestra of eighty five menWas keyed to an extraordinary patriotic pitchFor 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 numberDesignated 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 overAnd complimented itself individually and collectively on "doing its bit"By attending and listening to these patriotic concerts. THE JESTER by SAMUEL HOFFENSTEIN All the fool's gold of the world,All your dusty pageantries,All your reeking praise of Self,All your wise men's sophistries,All that springs of golden birth,Is not half the jester's worth! Who's the jester? He is one,Who behind the scenes hath been,Caught Life with his make-up off,Found him but a harlequinCast to play a tragic part-And the two laughed, heart to heart! LO, THE HEADLINER by WALTER J. KINGSLEY I was not raised for vaudeville.Father and mother were veteran legits;They loved the Bard and the "Lady of Lyons."I was born on a show boat on the Cumberland;I was carried on as a childWhen the farm girl revealed her shameOn the night of the snowstorm.The old folks died with grease paint on their faces.I did a little of everythingEven to staking out a pitch in a street fair.Hiram Grafter taught me to ballyhooAnd to make openings.PRE-EMINENCE by MURDOCK PEMBERTON I once knew a manWho'd met Duse,(Or so he said)And talked with her;As she came down a windy streetHe turned a cornerHeadlong into her."I am so sorry," Duse said,"I was looking at the stars." My envy of that manWithstood the yearsUntil one day I met a DaneWho'd talked with Henrik Ibsen:This man, with head bowed to the wind,Was walking up a Stockholm wayWhen 'round the corner came the seer,And he plumped into him.And that great mindWhose thinking moved the worldSurveyed my friendThrough his big eyesAnd slowly spoke:"Since when have codfish come to land?" With all the aweOne has for those who've known the great,These two I've enviedUntil the other dayWhen blundering 'round behind the scenesI stepped upon Pavlowa's toe. --This text refers to the Kindle Edition edition.