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with ‘T’ in last week’s Bulletin,” said Mitchell, after cogitating some time over the last drop of tea in his pannikin, held at various angles, “about what they call the ‘Sex Problem’. There’s no problem, really, except Creation, and that’s not our affair; we can’t solve it, and we’ve no right to make a problem out of it for ourselves to puzzle over, and waste the little time that is given us about. It’s we that make the problems, not Creation. We make ‘em, and they only smother us; they’ll smother the world in the end if we don’t look out. Anything that can be argued, for and against, from half a dozen different points of view—and most things that men argue over can be—and anything that has been argued about for thousands of years (as most things have) is worse than profitless; it wastes the world’s time and ours, and often wrecks old mateships. Seems to me the deeper you read, think, talk, or write about things that end in ism, the less satisfactory the result; the more likely you are to get bushed and dissatisfied with the world. And the more you keep on the surface of plain things, the plainer the sailing—the more comfortable for you and