And using the word ephemeral in its strict sense, Don Marquis is unquestionably the cleverest of our ephemeral philosophers.  This nation suffers a good deal from lack of humour in high places:  our Great Pachyderms have all Won their Way to the Top by a Resolute Struggle.  But Don has just chuckled and gone on refusing to answer letters or fill out Mr. Purinton’s blasphemous efficiency charts or join the Poetry Society or attend community masques.  And somehow all these things seem to melt away, and you look round the map and see Don Marquis taking up all the scenery....  He has such an oecumenical kind of humour.  It’s just as true in Brooklyn as it is in the Bronx.

He is at his best when he takes up some philosophic dilemma, or some quaint abstraction (viz., Certainty, Predestination, Idleness, Uxoricide, Prohibition, Compromise, or Cornutation) and sets the idea spinning.  Beginning slowly, carelessly, in a deceptive, offhand manner, he lets the toy revolve as it will.  Gradually the rotation accelerates; faster and faster he twirls the thought (sometimes losing a few spectators whose centripetal powers are not starch enough) until, chuckling, he holds up the flashing, shimmering conceit, whirling at top speed and ejaculating sparks.  What is so beautiful as a rapidly revolving idea?  Marquis’s mind is like a gyroscope:  the faster it spins, the steadier it is.  There are laws of dynamics in colyums just as anywhere else.

What is there in the nipping air of Galesburg, Illinois, that turns the young sciolists of Knox College toward the rarefied ethers of literature?  S.S.  McClure, John Phillips, Ralph Waldo Trine, Don Marquis—­are there other Knox men in the game, too?  Marquis was studying at Galesburg about the time of the Spanish War.  He has worked on half a dozen newspapers, and assisted Joel Chandler Harris in editing “Uncle Remus’s Magazine.”  But let him tell his biography in his own words: 

    Born July 29, 1878, at Walnut, Bureau Co., Ill., a member of the
    Republican party.

    My father was a physician, and I had all the diseases of the time
    and place free of charge.

    Nothing further happened to me until, in the summer of 1896, I left
    the Republican party to follow the Peerless Leader to defeat.

In 1900 I returned to the Republican party to accept a position in the Census Bureau, at Washington, D.C.  This position I filled for some months in a way highly satisfactory to the Government in power.  It is particularly gratifying to me to remember that one evening, after I had worked unusually hard at the Census Office, the late President McKinley himself nodded and smiled to me as I passed through the White House grounds on my way home from toil.  He had heard of my work that day, I had no doubt, and this was his way of showing me how greatly he appreciated it.

Nevertheless, shortly after President McKinley paid this public tribute to the honesty,