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By Jack Dionne

I have been reading almost tons of things that have been written about the life, doings, and sayings of Will Rogers. I have found a peculiar enjoyment in reading everything that came my way about him.

And the foremost thought that the whole unbelievable tragedy leaves ineffaceably in my mind and, like Banquo's ghost, "will not down," is the age-old philosophy that "the ways of Providence are past our human understanding." Think of Will Rogers being gone, and of all the countless human lice that remain behind !

That isn't the right way to think of the matter. I realize that. It isn't the way Will Rogers would have thought-or at least spoken-had he been thinking about some other good man gone before. But I can't help it. It's the way I instinctively feel about it, and it is the thought that sticks in the front of my head. Will Rogers, with his sweetness, his cleanness, his helpfulness, his usefulness, his lovableness, his infallible ability to make other people happieris gone ! And the Longs, the Coughlins, and all the others of that ilk remain behind. It is all past our human understanding that such a thing could be. '

I hate to see them referring to him continually as a "wit." To call that gentle soul a wit is purest slander. Wit cuts. Wit hurts. Wit carries with it the sting of the lash. Even when used with the most ,consummate dexterity, it almost always leaves a wound. Will Rogers never said anything to hurt anyone. He leaned far over the other way.

In fact I well recall that the only times I ever seriously disagreed with anything he said was on one or two occasions when he sprang to the defense of someone who seemed to me to be indefensible. I realize now that it was the very nature of the man to hasten to the defense of someone whose dog was being kicked around; that the very fact that the fellow might deserve very little consideration, would make Rogers all the more anxious to speak a word in his defense. He tried to find some good in every one. He said himself that he'd never met a man he didn't like. He even found something nice to say about George Bernard Shaw; which proves that his tolerance had no limits.

Will Rogers was a HUMORIST. Ife was a humorist of the purest ray serene. He took men, and their words, and their works, and he distorted them in fun-loving fashion until they made men laugh. He had the amazing ability to make men laugh at themselves, Wit never accomplishes that. Only humor can make a .man really enjoy a joke of which he himself, is the butt. Simple things were his joy and delight. His fun and humor had simplicity and terseness as their 'chief appeal. He murdered the King's English, and people who would have turned up their nose at anyone else on this earth who "ainted" them as he did, laughed with him and at him until their sides ached with merriment.

Everyone on earth who gets things printed is taking a turn at eulogizing. Will Rogers. I think the most genuine interview about him was the remark of Aviator Crosson who flew the bodies back from the Arctic. When the newspapers at Los Angeles asked him about his friend, tears filled his eyes and he answered: "I can't speak about my personal feelings."

I think most of the people of this country felt like Crosson did. It was something too utterly stunning to vocalize. Irvin Cobb wrote ponderously about the departed. But before he got through he said one splendid thing. He admitted that in his own mind he had never entirely settled the question of immortality, but that while it might be that other people ended with the grave, it was impossible to even imagine su,ch a termination for Wilt Rogers; ,that he believed the humorist was going right along on his way. "ft wouldn't be right," said Cobb, "to give Will Rogers to just one world and chebt some other world out of all the kindliness and fun, all that sweetness and humility and ripe philosophy and precious wit." Plenty of folks will agree with that.

I think by far the finest tribute to Rogers I have read was that of another of his old friends, Harry Carr of the Los Angeles Times. "f have always thought of him," says Carr, "as the most typical of all Americans. He was America. He was the prairie wind and the pulse and throb of America. A square shooter, faithful to his family, to his friends, and to his ideals, Bill went to his last ride like the Chevalier Bayard-without fear and without reproach. The Indians say that it is not important how long a man lives; it is only important what he did while he was living. And most to be desired of any gift that can come to man is that his release from the world shall be one of honor and glory-that he go out on the crest of the wave-that when the ship goes down it shall be with the marine guard standing at Present Arms and the band playing-'The Star Spangled Banner.' And so did 'my friend go out, loaded with honors and with the friendship and affection of men. Vaya con Dios, Will. Go with God."

Many of his most'famous remarks are being printed and reprinted. I read and heard most everything he ever said. And I think the remark most typical of the man, and to me one of the finest bits of humor ever uttered, was when he said that a man who had a blue suit and a brown suit could dress splendidly for any occasion.

That was Will all over.