Timon of Athens really delighted in his reputation as a misanthropist. And hurling stones at all and sundry he advanced his chest in classic pride at being thought a bater of man. But not all of us have that classic pride. So when hints come down Plympton Street that a certain criminal is also a misanthropist, a misogynist--indeed, a mistake. The Crime, Column shivers like a traffic cop, feels as unscrupulous as the Memorial Hall clock. For last week's salute, though not a salut d' amour was really not the expression of undying hate. One the contrary--so, for the moment, gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?

But first we must have the support of the yeomanry. For our platform is this, resolved: that the shop windows of Cambridge, and Harvard Square in particular, are devoid of charm for these ladies who must spend hours looking at them awaiting their escorts. And anyone can easily see how very reasonable is our plea. We do not make it on religious or moral or intellectual grounds but simply on those of sympathy and understanding. Suppose, my friend, that you had to spend long moments in the cold and slush of Cambridge waiting for your chance to eat and dance and that you tried to find entertainment in a shop window only to discover rows of overshoes or a delightful array of collar buttons. I come to the defense of the desperate dears, come arushing. And then I am a misogynist.

Furthermore, I once saved a lady's life. She, like Moll Seagrim, was in a battle-royal with another lady. It was all because one had told the other that her "wave" was poor. Oaths flew, nails dug--it was most abusing. I bowed to one; I bowed to both. I called a cop. Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?

No not the two who were sitting back of me recently at the Metropolitan. The "Grand Duchess and the Waiter" was hors d'oeuvre to Miss America and the place was crowded. I had seen Miss America before--so--I rather centered on the movie--tried to--I couldn't. The two ladies behind me were chewing gum which clicked with a ding-dong rhythm against their plebian palates, monotonous, eternal. I shuddered. Came a voice, "She loves him but she don't want him to know it--see." The comedy followed, a Mack Sennett-- "That's not a real mustache see. It don't grow straight. We only a false one." I asked about for distraction. I found it. A little boy had wormed his way half across the theatre and was approaching his methel Lead first.

"Ma, Ma, wipemy nose." She bent to the daly, but not silently.

"Shut up, Chester, for . . . sakes where do you think you are?" By the way, gentlemen, shall we join.?

But this is leading us again into the cul de sae of hyper-criticism. Perhaps Mr. E. Minus's last attempt will help to keep the curse off.

My pleasant painted Anne or Kate

You never trust to Cambridge fate

For any smile may mean a date-

My pleasant painted Anne or Kate.

My rather over roughed Annette.

You've never missed an evening yet.

You never will I frankly bet.

My rather over rouged Annette.