When people say, patronizingly, of a man like Briggs, or Charlie Chaplin, or Lew Fields, He really is an artist, I am afflicted with vertigo and a sharp pain. Any man who can draw 365 cartoons a year, and have every one of them true and unmalicious, and most of them satirical, with a sound comment on life, is so obviously an artist that people oughtn't to discuss it. Of course he's an artist, as is any man, in or out of journalism, who comes to bat once a day, year after year, and never fails to assemble a hit. A few days ago, when I was particularly depressed over my own ineptitude, I looked at a Briggs cartoon and sighed half enviously, half despairingly, Gosh Doesn't the guy ever turn out a bad one?

Take the Oh, Man Series There is the theme of a novel or a short story in every one of them. Suppose Briggs had drawn as an Oh, Man Cartoon 0. Henry's The Pendulum I. Husband, accustomed to playing pool every evening at comes home at and finds wife missing.

II. Reads note, Gone to mother's. She is ill. III. Sits around lamenting wife's absence.

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