O. O. McIntyre // I spent the other night in an apartment in the neighborhood where I formerly lived. I was awakened in the morning by the ring of a blacksmith’s forge. This seemed to a sleep-sluggish mind more of a phantasy than reality. Where in the neighborhood was blacksmith shop? The explanation was simple. Across the street was a riding academy and all day long various mounts are being shod. But the metropolitan blacksmith shop is too swank for romance. The smithy was a runt and not the brawny type of poetical imagination. What made it worse was that he smoked cigarets. And—what a milksop age it is—there is a copy of Vanity Fair in one of the chairs. I didn’t have the heart to look for a wrist watch on the smithy’s arm. It must have been there.
Syndicated column, Dec. 31, 1924