Ladies and gentlemen, we are four years old, and will celebrate our birthday very quietly, as befits our august maturity. A year from now we will be five, and just possibly we will treat ourselves and you to a real bash. But that’s a year off. Meanwhile, we have to elect a new President of the United States and pay the printer. Our birthday message to our critics and deathwatchers, who kept thinking we’d go out of business any minute is: Gentlemen, you don’t know how close you came. And to our readers: You are our pride and joy; don’t forget us when we are old and grey.
Recently a stranger appeared at our office. He walked up to the receptionist, took five twenty-dollar bills out of his pocket and said, “I want to give these to NATIONAL REVIEW, and I want a receipt.” Mrs. Brady of our staff smiled that very special smile we reserve around here for our contributors, and said “Thank you, sir: and to whom shall I make out the receipt?” “Never mind,” said our benefactor; “never mind who I am; I am well enough known around town—just make it out to ‘Anonymous.’ ” Mrs. Brady complied, and gave the gentleman our thanks as he left. A moment later Mrs. Brady remembered NATIONAL REVIEW’S habit of making a gift of a book to friends who give a hundred or more dollars to the magazine, and lunged to the window hoping to stop Mr. Anonymous. She spotted him crossing the street and yelled out that she had a book for him. He walked gravely back, stood under the window and said: “Very well, throw it out the window and I’ll catch it.” She did, and he did; and off he went, and we say: thank you, Anon.
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