X

There is something very pathetic about X, the little unwanted letter. There it stands in its place in the alphabet, seeming just as important as any other letter; but look at it in the dictionary, what a small train of attendant words it has! It has so little work to do, nearly all of which could be done, as far as sound is concerned by two or three other letters, by z, by k and s.

But there is more than pathos about X—there is mystery; for Algebra steps in and says: "Let X be the unknown quantity." Plenty of work for X there. Stephen Leacock could write inimitably on the multitudinous affairs of hard-worked X, and all that he is equal to. What illimitable possibilities, what wonders, what mysteries cluster round the "unknown quantity"!

There is a piece of work given to X as a letter which I greatly dislike, and I used to wonder as to its origin—X standing for the word "Christ." Ts it because X is like a cross? I used to think "Xmas" for "Christmas"" seemed to rob the word of all its associations and beauty. There is no snow and silent spaces; no shining starry skies about "Xmas." It merely smacks of shops and crowds and advertisements and the noise of a commercial festival of the streets.

X, with its small following of words, almost all culled straight from the Greek, is a terrible stumbling block to the indefatigable [unclear: compilers] of children's Abcs. where every word must be simple and picturesque. They nearly always fall back on an "ex," or else in their desperation put in just the letter itself; and the disappointed child hurries on to "Y" and its big-sailed yacht, and "Z" with its attendant striped zebra.

But my ideas on X are exiguous—so I make an end.

M.L.N.