Absinthe.  The national headache of the French.  A jag-builder which is mostly wormwood and bad dreams.  A liquid substance which when applied to a “holdover” revivifies it and enables its owner to sit up and notice the bar-tender.

Abstain.  The stepladder which leads up to the water wagon.

Abstemious.  Having an aisle seat on the water wagon.

Acrobat.  A fellow of infinite chest.

Accumulate.  To collect or bring together.  For example:  “He borrowed two dollars from his wife, whereupon he went out and accumulated a bunch of boozerine.” (Carlyle’s Heroes and Hero Worship.)

[Illustration]

A thing of beauty.  A joy forever until we get used to it.

Alcohol.  The forefather of a hold-over.  Boozerine, in the raw state.  From the Latin words alco and haul, meaning “he is soused to the booby hatches, haul him to the alcove.” (See Lord Macaulay’s Jags of Ancient Rome.)

AMBITION.  The only disease which laziness can cure.

AMUSEMENT.  The hard work a man does on the golf links to give himself an appetite for sausage links.

ANGEL.  Something behind a show—­and always something behind.

APE.  To imitate.  For instance:  The man who imitates his betters is the easiest man to make a monkey of.

APPLAUSE.  The fuss which we think the world ought to make over us for doing our duty.

AUTOMOBILE.  A horseless idea which makes people go fast and the money go faster.  A tide in the affairs of man which, taken between the shoulder blades and the curbstone, leads on to the hospital.

AXE-GRINDING.  The art practiced by those who give you a cookie so they can touch you for a barrel of flour.  The axe-grinding industry had its origin in the Garden of Eden.  The Serpent was extremely partial to Autumn, so he gave Eve a nice red apple, and in exchange she gave the Serpent an early Fall. (See Lord Macaulay, page 34.)

[Illustration]

AIRSHIP.  A machine invented for the purpose of flying through the newspapers.

* * * * *

See M. Santos Dumont.  In case he isn’t in when you call a part of his autobiography is printed herewith:  “My first yearning,” writes M. Santos—­see page 97—­“was for an opportunity to rise in the world.

“When but a little boy my dearest wish was to get up to the top of the ladder and then have someone remove the ladder.  If I stayed up I knew I was successful.  If I came down I didn’t know anything for a week or two.”

The reader will notice a peculiarity about this gentleman’s name.  It starts off with “M” and then there is eight bars rest until it comes to Santos.  This is a French custom.  Every man in France begins his first name with “M” and then refuses to tell the rest of it.  It seems such a stingy habit.