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Beatrice Wood   9

The day before the magazine was to go out in the mail and put on subway stands, by mistake it was delivered to the foyer of my parents apartment. When I returned home, I was confronted with bundles reaching to the ceiling. My father, stern and strange came out to meet me, "I do not think you know what you are doing," he began in defeated voice. "When I saw those packages, baffled I opened on and found your name as publisher. Glancing further, I could not believe a child of mine would associate with such thought. It is filthy. Never have I interfered with your life, but now I beg, plead you to withdraw this sheel from circulation. There are in it three words no young girl should hear. If it goes through mails, you can be put in jail."

THe [[The]] thought of jail did not bother, like all youth I was happy to endure hardship for a cause. But the thought of Mrs. Whitney, Crowneshielf, Walter, bothered. If the magazine was as alarming as my father insisted, their names publicly would be mud. Rushing to the telephone, I lost no time to recheck proofs with Frank Crownenshield. Considering that Mrs. Whitney had financed the publication and many prominent names were in it, including his own he decided it wiser to withdraw the magazine from the mails. He and I then went over every word, but could not find the three objectionalbe [[objectionable]] ones my father considered unprintable.

Marcel asked me to make a poster for a Greenwich Village ball, and from many sketches he chose one I did with laughter to tease him, of a wild stick figure thumbing his nose. The ball was attended by the Arensbergs and Marcel climbed a chandelier. At three in the morning in the morning we returned to Walter and Lou's for scrambled egg, and on account of the late hour, Marcel invited four of us to spend the rest of the night in his place.

He had a large bed, low to the floor, no post. Myrna Loy, the