Fresh from the astronomers comes the news that a stupendous collision of many suns has taken place in the Constellation Lyra. In the telescope, they say, great clouds of nebular smoke and ashes are visible. And although our own sun and all its planets are headed in a straight line for this very crossroads of the universe, nobody seems much concerned. Partly through disbelief in the science of astronomy itself and partly through the urgency of things like the shortage of coal; the inclement weather, or diplomatic tussles with Turkey, people look askance, saying: "No matter, the scientists are always talking."

In that memorable year at Lisbon the wise men of the town thought a big bonfire would put a quietus on the local earthquake. They even went so far as to whip Voltaire's poor old-Candide because he had merely seen a Portuguese eat a piece of bacon. Now it is the astronomer's turn to be whipped. And some people even hope that jazz and the hip-hoorah of modern Pep will drown the roar of the sidereal universe. None of these, of course, considers that one shift of the celestial pole in a mere 25,000 years will make grass grow on the present north pole and put jelly fish in even the most modern of our office buildings.

Indifference is a good cloak: it helps to keep one a good Democrat or a good Republican or even a good citizen, but it is hard on posterity. Some morning, say twenty cycles and four immensities ahead, the human race will wake up and chide the government because there is no sun. At 10 A. M. the officials, working by electric light, will have digged far into the ancient archives in search of prophecies concerning the present catastrophe. By 4 P. M. perhaps they will have found this entry: "Collision in Lyria 12-1-22".

Little by little the dispute over the meaning of this entry will grow until it includes in one vast growl of argument all the people from the hereditary janitors down to the sovereigns of the wrench and the nut. When it reaches the last named arbiters of human progress, the machinery, being neglected, will jam, whereupon the lights will go out. The growl of argument will then change to one great roar of anger.

"What!" will be exclaimed, "this is not the joke of columnists? Why, you have double-crossed us--the sun has indeed run amuck! Let us have a new election." But what will happen after that, no one, not even the man who sees good in everything, would dare conjecture.