Verily, fame is a fickle goddess. For our natures are fearfully and wonderfully made. But more fearfully than wonderfully. Just two years ago, many other-wise sane Americans were employing valuable time which they could have wasted better elsewhere--inventing epigrams! These related to a (with reservations) gentlemen from Amerongen. Their delicate spirit was imbued in such phrases as "Kan the Krazy Kaiser." And at the same time, several million doughboys were promising their Dulcineas a piece of that personage's ear, or a curl from his right moustache. Apparently oblivious of the blissful fact that the "glorious leadership" of this man was worth at least an army corps to the Allies.

And now, this broken-down Napoleon sits in his back yard, surrounded by as many private detectives as an Attorney General or a Pittsburgh millionaire. It must be a bitter pill for the great Poseur to have to pretend a demure shyness to tempt the photographers Lo, he used to treat Gott with condescension. But now he even bores the League of Nations. No one cares what becomes of him. He is de trop, passe.

Poor old figurehead. His glories are over; he is thoroughly exposed. But he has one more chance for that publicity he craves. Let him marry a laundress and set up a delicatessen store in New Rochelle, N. Y. The resultant bankruptcy and divorce proceedings will figure largely in the journals of his old well-wisher, Herr Hearst. For he will never attain prominence as a "second story" man. He lacks the necessary imagination, or else, since nobody loves him, he can continue to go out into the garden--and saw wood.