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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
81
The
next
toy
was
his
pants.
He
had
immense
fun
there,
putting
them
on
and
taking
them
off
again,
and
then
trying
to
guess
which
side
was
which
by
merely
looking
at
them.
After
that
he
took
his
book
and
read
some
adventures
called
"Genesis"
till
breakfast-time.
Then
he
went
downstairs
and
kissed
his
father
and
mother.
His
father
was
smoking
a
cigar,
and
his
mother
had
her
new
brooch
on.
Hoodoo's
face
was
thoughtful,
and
a
light
seemed
to
have
broken
in
upon
his
mind.
Indeed,
I
think
it
altogether
likely
that
next
Christmas
he
will
hang
on
to
his
own
money
and
take
chances
on
what
the
angels
bring.
The
Life
of
John
Smith
The
lives
of
great
men
occupy
a
large
section
of
our
literature.
The
great
man
is
certainly
a
wonderful
thing.
He
walks
across
his
century
and
leaves
the
marks
of
his
feet
all
over
it,
ripping
out
the
dates
on
his
goloshes
as
he
passes.
It
is
impossible
to
get
up
a
revolution
or
a
new
religion,
or
a
national
awakening
of
any
sort,
without
his
turning
up,
putting
himself
at
the
head
of
it
and
collaring
all
the
gate-receipts
for
himself.
Even
after
his
death
he
leaves
a
long
trail
of
second-rate
relations
spattered
over
the
front
seats
of
fifty
years
of
history.
Now
the
lives
of
great
men
are
doubtless
infinitely
interesting.
But
at
times
I
must
confess
to
a
sense
of
reaction
and
an
idea
that
the
ordinary
common
man
is
entitled
to
have
his
biography
written
too.
It
is
to
illustrate
this
view
that
I
write
the
life
of
John
Smith,
a
man
neither
good
nor
great,
but
just
the
usual,
everyday
homo
like
you
and
me
and
the
rest
of
us.
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