I LIKE Americans. You may say what you will, they are the nicest people in the world.

They sleep with their windows open.

Their bath-tubs are never dry.

They are not grown-up yet. They still believe in Santa Claus.

They are terribly in earnest.

But they laugh at everything.

They know that one roll does not make a breakfast.

Nor one vermouth a cocktail.

I like Americans.

They smoke with their meals.

The Italians are nice.

But they are not so nice as the Americans.

They have been told that they live in a warm climate.

And they refuse to heat their houses.

They are forever sobbing Puccini.

They no longer have lions about, to prey on Christian flesh.

But they have more than a sufficient supply of certain smaller carnivora.

And if you walk in the street alone, somebody pinches you.

I like Americans.

They give you the matches free.

THE Austrians are nice.

But they are not so nice as the Americans. They eat sausages between the acts at the opera.

But they make you go out into the snow to smoke.

They are gentle and friendly. They will walk ten blocks out of their way to show you your way.

But they serve you paper napkins at the table.

And the sleeves of their tailored blouses are gathered at the shoulder.

And they don't know how to do their hair. I like Americans.

They dance so well.

The Hungarians are nice.

But they are not so nice as the Americans. They make beautiful shoes.

Which are guaranteed to squeak for a year. Their native tongue is like a typewriter in the next room, and every word beginning with the shift-key.

Their wines are too sweet.

I like Americans.

They are the only men in the world, the sight of whom in their shirt-sleeves is not rumpled, embryonic, and agonizing.

They wear belts instead of suspenders.

THE French are nice. But they are not so nice as the Americans. They wear the most charming frocks in the world.

And the most awkward underclothes.

Their shoes are too short.

Their ankles are too thick.

They are always forgetting where they put their razors.

They have no street-corner shoe-shining palaces, where a man can be a king for five minutes every day.

Nor any Sunday supplement.

Their mail-boxes are cleverly hidden slits in the wall of a cigar store.

They put all their cream into cheese.

Your morning cup of chicory is full of boiled strings.

If you want butter with your luncheon, they expect you to order radishes.

And they insist on serving the vegetables as if they were food.

I like Americans.

They make a lot of foolish laws.

But at least their cigarettes are not rolled by the government.

The material of which the French make their cigarettes would be used in America to enrich the fields.

IN the city the French are delightful. They kiss in the cafes and dine on the sidewalks.

Their dance halls are gay with paper ribbons and caps and colored balloons.

Their rudeness is more gracious than other people's courtesy.

But they are afraid of the water.

They drink it mixed with wine.

They swim with wings.

And they bathe with an atomizer.

Their conception of a sport suit is a black taffeta gown, long gloves with fringe on, a patent leather hand-bag, and a dish-mop dog.

In the country they are too darned funny for words.

I like Americans.

They carry such pretty umbrellas.

The Avenue de I'Opera on a rainy day is just an avenue, on a rainy day.

But Fifth Avenue on a rainy day is an old-fashioned garden under a shower.

The French are a jolly lot.

Their cities have no traffic regulations.

And no speed limit.

And if you get run over, you have to pay a fine for getting in the way.

They have no ear drums.

Paris is the loveliest city in the world.

Until she opens her mouth.

Should the French go forth to battle ajmed only with their taxi horns, they would drive all before them.

I would liefer live in a hammock slung under the "L" at Herald Square, than in a palace within ear-shot of the Place de la Harmony.

I LIKE Americans. They are so ridiculous.

They are always risking their lives to save a minute.

The pavement under their feet is red-hot. They are the only people in the world who can eat their soup without a sound as of the tide coming in.

They sell their bread hygienically wrapped.

The Europeans sell it naked.

They carry it under the arm.

Drop it and pick it up.

Beat the horses with it.

And spank the children.

They deliver it at your apartment. You find it lying outside your door on the door-mat.

And European hotels are so hateful and irritating.

There is never an ash-tray in your bedroom Nor a waste-basket.

Nor a cake of soap.

No sweet little cake of new soap all sealed in paper!

Not even a sliver left behind by a former guest.

No soap.

No soap at all.

And there's always a dead man in a blanket across the head of the bed.

And you can't get him out. He's tied there. And the pillow-slips are trimmed with broken buttons.

That scratch your ear.

THEN there are their theatres. They make you tip the usher. And pay for your program.

The signal for the curtain to rise is the chopping of wood, off stage.

Then the railroad system.

Especially in France.

Have to get there forty-five minutes ahead of train time, or stand in the aisle all day. Pay for every pound of trunk.

Never a soul in sight who knows anything about anything.

No place to sit.

No place to powder up.

And before they will let you into the station at all, they insist on your pushing two sous into a slot-machine.

When you have just had your pocket picked of the last sou you had in the world.

And are expecting your only husband on the express from Havre.

I like Americans.

They let you play around in the Grand Central all you please.

Their parks are not locked at sunset.

And they always have plenty of paper bags. Which are not made of back numbers of Le Rire.

THE English are nice.

But they are not so nice as the Americans. They wear much too much flannel.

No matter with whom they are dancing, they dance a solo.

And no matter where they go, they remain at home.

They are nice. They keep the tea-set at the office.

But the Americans keep the dish-pan in the music-room.

The English are an amusing people.

They are a tribe of shepherds, inhabiting a small island off the coast of France.

They are a simple and genial folk.

But they have one idiosyncrasy.

They persist in referring to their island as if it were the mainland.

The Irish are nice.

But they are not so nice as the Americans. They are always rocking the boat.

I like Americans.

They either shoot the whole nickel, or give up the bones.

You may say what you will, they are the nicest people in the world.