Evening Republican, Volume 21, Number 153, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 July 1917 — Kin Hubbard Essays [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Kin Hubbard Essays

THE LIVER'

Th’ shameful treatment that 18 bein’ accorded th’ human liver in this day an’ age is a reflection on our boasted civilization. We’re rushin’ ahead settling the affairs of the world while thgreat American liver struggles along doin’ two livers’ work without a friend in either branch o’ congress. Th’ human liver (Swedish “Lefver”) is a large gland that reposes in th’ upper right hand corner o’ th’ abdominal cavity an’, when conditions are as they should be, it weighs one-fortieth as much as th’ body t’ which it is attached. It is th’ main gazabo o’ th’ human works but, nothwlthstandln’ th* important roll it plays in our pursuit

o’ life, liberty an’ happiness, it is th’ most abused, most misconstrued, most Ignored, most imposed on, most neglected an’ lied about organ of which th’ medical fraternity has any knowledge. Next t’ a yeller dog ther haint nothin’ that responds as readily t’ kindness as th’ human liver. Prunes, when properly stewed, are fine fer th’ liver, but how many of us are darin’ enough to’ order them? We occasionally eat an apple jest t’ please th’ liver, but we rarely take th’ liver int’ our confidence when we attend a Jefferson Day ban-

quet. We are not chummy enough with th’ liver. How many of ns have any knowledge of it’s plumbin’? A feller’s disposition Is regulated by his liver. Th’ liver is th’ switchboard o’ his inclinations an* impulses. We often hear it said of a feller that he entered int’ this er that with bls whole heart. It wuz his whole liver. Most o’ th’ credit that goes t’ th’ heart rightfully belongs t* an agile liver. Th* heart ’ll often butt in where th* liver fears t* tread. Some fellers are very lavish till ther asked t* do somethin’ fer ther liver. NexM’ a poor relative ther haint nothin’ they’re less Interested in than ther own liver. Some girls become great-

ly exercised over a mole on ther back an’ then laughln’ly powder over a liver spot on ther cheek. One o’ th’ hardest things that come up durin’ th’ liver’s daily routine is handlin’ a large steak after its owner has consumed it an’ sunken heavily int’ an easy chair t’ ponder over th* complicated condition o’ Mexican affairs an’ view with alarm. When th’ human liver (Latin “Jecur”) is happily situated an’ th’ lines leadin’ therefrom are open to’ traffic ther is nothin! that looks as bright an* beautiful as th’ world.

OUR APPALLIN’ LITERARY OUTPUT-

When we look at[ th’ great mass o’ literature that tests th’ capacity o’ book stores an’ news stands we can’t help thinkin’ what a scramble ther rnusl be fer even standin’ room in th’ field o’ literature. Most anybuddy roundin’ forty kin easily remember th’ day when two or three family story papers, a couple o’ magazines, a stack o’ Ned Buntline’s yeller backs, a certain illustrated pink weekly devoted to’ crime an’ th’ prize ring an’ “Lovell’s Library” constituted what wuz regarded at th’ time as a first-class book an’ news depot. “Lovell’s Library” wuz made up of paper backed novels —thrillin’ stories of adventure an’ heart meltin’ tales o’ love—by such celebrated writers as Wilkie Collins, Clark Russell, Mrs. Henry Wood, Ouida, Hugh Conway, Charlotte Braeme, Robert Buchanan an’ Th’ Duchess. Th’ great popularity o’ Adam Bede, Th’ Mill on th’ Floss, Black

Beauty, Lena Rivers, Uncle Tom’s Cabin, Robinson Crusoe an’ Enoch Arden had dwindled t’ a fair demand, but were t’ be found among th’ others. Jest think o’ th’ appallin’ literary output o’ t’day. It would require an abandoned skatin’ rink t’ carry a full line o’ current literature. In th’ aver* age home th’ cartin’ away o’ th’ accumulated literature has come t’ be as much of a problem as th’ removal o’ ashes an’ garbage. A literary disposal plant is one o’ th’ urgent needs o’ th’ times. On returnin’ from a week’s vacation one has t’ tunnel thro’ th’ great drifts o’ papers an’ magazines it’ reach th’ front door. Cher’s no longer any mystery about how th’ other half o’ th’ world lives. It writes. Fer ever* mail box tiler's an amateur writer- As th’ days draws t’ a close he mpy be seen skulkin’ along thro’ th’ shadows f a mail box bearin’ a thick reel o’ manuscript addressed ts some magazine publisher. He knows some magazine needs it f balance up its advertisin’. When a magazine editor returns a manuscript it’s because he hain’t got room fer it It’s no sign he has read it Writers know that They

jest remall it t* some other editor. Th* great difficulty in contributin’ t* th* magazines is knowin* which magazine editor rips open a story he counts th* pages an’ calls t* his assistant: “George “kin we use about fourteen hundred words next month?” an* George answers right off th’ bat (bein* thoroughly familiar with th’ number o’ ads): “Yes, it’ll jest balance up th* ads." But th’ author never quits. Some* times he drys up fer a week or ten days, but he’s soon at it agin. He knows that ther must be somewhere, some editor that’s holdin’ his forms open fer his story an’ he mails it an* remails it till he hits th’ right editor. Writin’ looks awful easy, an’ most of it must be awful easy. That’s th* reason so many neglect ther personal appearance an’ become writers. I’ve often thought I’d lay off some afternoon an’ write a novel. But wrlttn*

fer magazines is th’best sport. It’s as lazy an’ fascinatin’as fishin’. You’re your own master. You don’t even-have t’ be available. ’Jest so your story la long enough or short enough—jest so th’ editor receives in August fer th’ May number. All he wants is room fer it an’ plenty o’ time. When we reflect that Pilgrim’s Progress wuz writt’n in jail, that Silvio Pelllco an’ Tasso did ther best writin* behind th’ bars, that Sir Walter Raleigh’s admirable history o’ th* world wuz written with his hands handcuffed behind him in th’ Tower o’ London, that Leigh Hunt wuz layin* out a fine when Rimini wuz written, an’ that Daniel Defoe laid th* plans fer Robinson Crusoe while he wuz in a lock-up we must confess that th’ world t’day is purty lenient after aIL (Copyright, Adams Newspaper Service.)

When th’ Human Liver (Latin "Jecur") Is Happily Situated, Ther is Nothin That Looks as Bright an’ Beautiful as th' World.

In th’ Average Home th’ Cartin’ Away o’ th’ Accumulated Literature Has Come t’ Be as Much of a Problem as th' Removal o’ Ashes and Garbage. A Literary Disposal Plant Is One o’ th' Urgent Needs o’ th’ Times.