The So-called Human Race

APRILLY.

Harriet reports the first trustworthy sign of spring: friend husband on the back porch Sunday morning removing last year’s mud from his golf shoes.

Old Doc Oldfield of London prescribes dandelion leaves, eggs, lettuce, milk, and a few other things for people who would live long, and a Massachusetts centenarian offers, as her formula, “Don’t worry and don’t over-eat.” But we, whose mission is to enlighten the world, rather than to ornament it, are more influenced by the experiment of Herbert Spencer. Persuaded to a vegetarian diet, he stuck at it for six months. Then reading over what he had written during that time, he thrust the manuscript into the fire and ordered a large steak with fried potatoes and mushrooms.

[p 184]
“SPRING HAS COME …”

BYRON WROTE MOST OF THIS.
[From the Monticello Times.]

Julf Husman, who has been busy for the past several months, building a fine new house and barn, celebrated their completion with a barn dance Wednesday night. “The beauty and chivalry” of Wayne and adjoining townships attended, and did “chase the glowing hours with flying feet,” with as much enthusiasm and pleasure as did the guests “When Belgium’s capital had gathered then and bright the lamps shone over fair women and brave men.”

A CANNERY DANCE.
[From the Iowa City Press.]

“Fair women and brave men” circled hither and thither in the maze of the stately waltz and the festal two-step, and the dainty slippers kept graceful time with the strains of the exceptionally fine music of the hour. Lovely young women, with roses in their cheeks and their hair, caught the reflection of the radiant electric lights and the [p 185] />glory of the superb decorations, and their natural pulchritude was enhanced in impressiveness thereby. The “frou frou” of silks and satins; the enchanting orchestral offerings; the brilliant illuminations; the alluring decorations, and the intoxication of the dance made the event one of the most markedly successful in the history of the university.

FOR THE LAST DAY OF MARCH.

Don’t forget to set the time locks on your safes ahead an hour. Otherwise you’ll be all mixed up.

At Ye Olde Colonial Inn, according to the Aurora Beacon-News, a special “Table de Haute” dinner was served last Sunday. And the Gem restaurant in St. Louis tells the world: “Our famous steaks tripled our seating capacity.”

CHANCES, 2; ERRORS, 2.

Sir: While in the Hotel Dyckman I noted a sign recommending the 85c dinner in the “Elizabethian Room.” After a search I found the place, duly labeled “Elizabethean Room.” D. K. M.

[p 186]
Just what does the trade jargon mean, “Experience essential but not necessary”? We see it frequently in the advertising columns.

A variant of the form, “experience essential but not necessary,” is used by the Racine Times-Call, as follows:

“Wanted, secretary-treasurer for a local music corporation; must also have a knowledge of music, but not essential.”

As curious as the advertising form, “experience essential but not necessary,” is the form used by the Daily News: “Responsible for no debts contracted by no other than myself.”

The provincialism indicated by the title of the pop song, “Good bye, Broadway! Hello, France!” reminds us of the headline in a New York paper some years ago: “Halley’s Comet Rushing on New York.”

“The love, the worship of truth is the most essential thing in journalism,” says the editor of Le Matin. Or, as the ads read, “love of truth essential but not necessary.”

The Hopkinsville, Ky., News is a Negro paper, and its motto is: “Man is made of clay, and like [p 187] />a meerschaum pipe is more valuable when highly colored.”

From the letter of a colored gentleman of leisure, apropos of his wife’s suit for divorce: “P. S.: Also, honey, i hope while others have your company i may have your heart.” Here is a refrain for a sentimental song.

SMACK! SMACK!

Sir: May I suggest that the matrimonial bureau of the Academy take steps to introduce Miss Irene V. Smackem of Washington, D.C., and Mr. Kissinger of Fergus Falls, Minn.? They would make a perfect pair. Kaye.

MARCH.

If no one else cares, the compositor and proof reader will be interested to know that Ignacy Seczupakiewicz brought suit in Racine against Praxida Seczupakiewicz.

[p 188]
Referring to Beethoven’s anniversary, Ernest Newman remarks that “a truly civilized community would probably celebrate a centenary by prohibiting all performances of the master’s works for three or five years, so that the public’s deadening familiarity with them might wear off. That would be the greatest service it could do him.”

Newman, by the way, is a piano-player fan, contending that when the principles of beautiful tone production are understood, mechanical means will probably come nearer to perfection than the human hand. Mr. Arthur Whiting, considering the horseless pianoforte some time ago, was also enthusiastic. The h. p. is entirely self-possessed, and has even more platform imperturbability than the applauded virtuoso. “After a few introductory sounds, which have nothing to do with the music, and without relaxing the lines of its inscrutable face, the insensate artist proceeds to show its power. Its security puts all hand playing to shame; it never hesitates, it surmounts the highest difficulties without changing a clutch.”

Dixon’s Elks were entertained t’other evening by the Artists Trio, and the Telegraph observes that “one of the remarkable facts concerning this [p 189] />company is that while they are finished artists they nevertheless are delightful entertainers.”

We seldom listen to a canned-music machine, but when we do we realize the great educational value of the discs. They advise us (especially the records of singing comedians) what to avoid.

The prejudices against German music will deprive many gluttons for punishment of the opportunity to hear “Parsifal.” We remember one lady who was concerned because Dalmorés stood for a long time with his back to the audience. “Why does he have to do that?” she asked her companion. “Because,” was the answer, “he shot the Holy Grail.”

At a concert in Elmira, N. Y., according to the Telegram, William Kincade sang “Tolstoi’s Good Bye.” Some one sings it every now and then.

Among the forty-six professors removed from the universities of Greece were, we understand, all those holding the chair of Greek. Another blow at the classics.

LITERATURE.

A great deal of very good writing has been done by invalids, but it is not likely that anybody [p 190] />ever produced a line worth remembering while suffering with a plain cold.

We were saying to our friend Dr. Empedocles that we kept our enthusiasms green by never taking anything very seriously. “That’s interesting,” said he: “I, too, have kept my enthusiasm fresh, and I have always taken everything seriously.” The two notions seemed irreconcilable, but we presently agreed that by having a great number and variety of enthusiasms one is not likely to ride any of them to death. We all know persons who wear out an enthusiasm by taking it as solemnly as they would a religious rite.

We were sure that the headline, “Mint at Chicago Greatly Needed, Houston Says,” would inspire more than one reader to remark that the mint is the least important part of the combination.

We are reminded of the experience of a friend who has a summer place in Connecticut. At church the pastor announced a fund for some war charity, and asked for contributions. Our friend sent in fifty dollars, and a few days later inquired of the pastor how much money had been raised, “Fifty-five dollars and seventy-five cents,” was [p 191] />the answer. The pastor had contributed five dollars.

SONG.
[In the manner of Laura Blackburn.]

Throwing self-interest to the winds, a Chicago sweetshop advertises: “That we may have a part in the effort to bring back normal conditions and reduce the high cost of living, our prices on chocolates and bon-bons are now one dollar and fifty cents per pound.”

Persons who are so o. f. as to like rhyme with their poetry may discover another reason for [p 192] />their preference in the following passage, which Edith Wyatt quotes from Oscar Wilde:

“Rime, that exquisite echo which in the Muse’s hollow hill creates and answers its own voice; rime, which in the hands of the real artist becomes not merely a material element of material beauty, but a spiritual element of thought and passion also, waking a new mood, it may be, or stirring a fresh train of ideas, or opening by mere sweetness and suggestion of sound some golden door at which the Imagination itself had knocked in vain; rime which can turn man’s utterance to the speech of gods”—

We promised Miss Wyatt that the next time we happened on the parody of Housman’s “Lad,” we would reprint it; and yesterday we stumbled on it. Voila!—

THE BELLS OF FROGNAL LANE.

We have been looking over “Forms Suggested for Telegraph Messages,” issued by the Western Union. While more humorous than perhaps was intended, they fall short of the forms suggested by Max Beerbohm, in “How Shall I Word It?” As for example:

LETTER IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WEDDING PRESENT.

Dear Lady Amblesham,

Who gives quickly, says the old proverb, gives twice. For this reason I have purposely delayed writing to you, lest I should appear to thank you more than once for the small, cheap, hideous present you sent me on the occasion of my recent wedding. Were you a poor woman, that little bowl of ill-imitated Dresden china would convict you of tastelessness merely; were you a blind woman, of nothing but an odious parsimony. As you have normal eyesight and more than normal wealth, your gift to me proclaims you at once a Philistine and a miser (or rather did so proclaim you until, less than ten seconds after I had unpacked it from its wrappings of tissue paper, I [p 194] />took it to the open window and had the satisfaction of seeing it shattered to atoms on the pavement). But stay! I perceive a flaw in my argument. Perhaps you were guided in your choice by a definite wish to insult me. I am sure, on reflection, that this is so. I shall not forget.

Yours, etc.
Cynthia Beaumarsh.

PS. My husband asks me to tell you to warn Lord Amblesham to keep out of his way or to assume some disguise so complete that he will not be recognized by him and horsewhipped.

PPS. I am sending copies of this letter to the principal London and provincial newspapers.

We hope that Max Beerbohm read far enough in Bergson to appreciate what Mr. Santayana says of that philosopher. He seems to feel, wrote G. S. (we quote from memory), that all systems of philosophy existed in order to pour into him, which is hardly true, and that all future systems would flow out of him, which is hardly necessary.

To a great number of people all reasoning and comment is superficial that is not expressed in the jargon of sociology and political economy. Expand a three-line paragraph in that manner and it becomes profound.

[p 195]
SING A SONG OF SPRINGTIME.

Mike Neckyoke drives a taxi in Rhinelander, Wis., and you have only one guess at what he used to drive.

From Philadelphia comes word of the nuptials of Mr. Tunis and Miss Fisch. Tunis, we leapingly conclude, is the masculine form!

We have the card of another chimney sweep, who is “sole agent for wind in chimneys and furnaces.” His name is MacDraft, which may be another nom de flume.

The anti-fat brigade may be intrigued to learn that Mr. George Squibb of Wareham, Eng., sought death in the sea at Swanage, but was unable to stay under the water because of his corpulence.

[p 196]
Not long ago a mule broke a leg by kicking a man in the head, and this week a horse broke a leg in the same way; in each case the man was not seriously injured. Is this merely luck, or is evolution modifying the human coco?

More building is the solution of the unemployment problem. The unemployed are never so occupied and contented as when watching the construction of a sky-scraper.

Her publishers having announced that Ellen Glasgow has “gone into leather,” Keith Preston explains that going into leather is “like receiving the accolade, taking the veil, or joining the American Academy of Arts and Letters.” And we suppose that when one goes into ooze leather, or is padded, one may be said to be fini.

A FEW MORE “BEST BAD LINES.”

A household hinter advises that “if the thin white curtains blow into the gas and catch fire sew small lead weights into the seams.” Before doing this, however, it would be wise to turn in an alarm.

The orchestra was playing too loud to suit the manager, so he complained to the leader. “The passage is written in forte,” said the latter. “Well, make it about thirty-five.”

SEIZE HIM, SCOUTS!

Sir: I submit for the consideration of the new school of journalism the following, recently perpetrated by an aspiring young journalist: “Information has been received that Mrs. Blank, [p 198] />who was spending a vacation of several weeks in Colorado, was killed in an automobile accident over long distance telephone by her husband.” Calcitrosus.

“THAT’S GOOD.”

Sir: A man and three girls were waiting for the bus. The driver slowed up long enough to call, “Full house!” “Three queens!” responded the waiting cit, and turned disgustedly away. X. T. C.

WHY BANK CLERKS ARE TIRED.

Sir: Voice over the telephone: “Please send me two check books.”

B. C.: “Large or small?”

V. o. t. t.: “Well, I don’t write such very large checks, but sometimes they amount to a hundred dollars.” Jane.

“Why not make room for daddy?” queries the editor of the Emporia Gazette, with a break in his voice. Daddy, we hardly need say, is the silently suffering member of the household who hasn’t a large closet all to himself, with rows of, shiny hooks on which to hang his duds.

Ah, yes, why not make room for daddy? It is impossible to contemplate daddy’s pathetic condition without bursting into tears. Votes for women? Huh! Hooks for men!

[p 199]
“NATION-WIDE.”

[p 200]
Speaking of local color, B. Humphries Brown and Bonnie Blue were wedded in Indianapolis.

Married, in Evansville, Ind., Ellis Shears and Golden Lamb. Something might be added about wool-gathering.

Embarrassed by the riches of modern literature at our elbow, we took refuge in Jane Austen, and re-read “Mansfield Park,” marvelling again at its freshness. They who hold that Mark Twain was not a humorist, or that he was at best an incomplete humorist, have an argument in his lack of appreciation of Jane Austen.

One of the most delightful things about the author of “Mansfield Park” that we have seen lately is an extract from “Personal Aspects of Jane Austen,” by Miss Austen-Leigh. “Each of the novels,” she says, “gives a description, closely interwoven with the story and concerned with its principal characters, of error committed, conviction following, and improvement effected, all of which may be summed up in the word ‘Repentance.’”

Almost as good is Miss Austen-Leigh’s contradiction of the statement that sermons wearied Jane. She quotes the author’s own words: “I [p 201] />am very fond of Sherlock’s Sermons, and prefer them to almost any.” What a lot of amusement she must have had, shooting relatives and friends through the hat!

Was there ever a character more delightfully detestable than Mrs. Norris? Was there ever another character presented, so alive and breathing, in so few pen strokes? Jane Austen had no need of psychoanalysis.

As for William Lyons Phelps’ remark, which a contrib has quoted, that “too much modern fiction is concerned with unpleasant characters whom one would not care to have as friends,” how would you like to spend a week-end with the characters in “The Mayor of Casterbridge”? With the exception of the lady in “Two on a Tower,” and one or two others, Mr. Hardy’s characters are not the sort that one would care to be cast away with; yet will we sit the night out, book in hand, to follow their sordid fortunes.

“What I want to know is,” writes Fritillaria, “whether you think Jane Austen drew Edmund and Fanny for models, or knew them for the unconscionable prigs they are. I am collecting votes.” Well, we think that Jane knew they were prigs, but nevertheless had, like ourself, a [p 202] />warm affection for Fanny. Fanny Price, Elizabeth Bennet, and Anne (we forget her last name) are three of the dearest girls in fiction.

We are reminded by F. B. T. that the last name of the heroine of “Persuasion” was Elliott. Anne is our favorite heroine—except when we think of Clara Middleton.

Space has been reserved for us in the archæological department of the Field Museum for Pre-Dry wheezes, which should be preserved for a curious posterity. We have filed No. 1, which runs:

“First Comedian: ‘Well, what made you get drunk in the first place?’ Second Comedian: ‘I didn’t get drunk in the first place. I got drunk in the last place.’”

Our budding colyumist (who, by the way, has not thanked us for our efforts in his behalf) will want that popular restaurant gag: “Use one lump of sugar and stir like hell. We don’t mind the noise.”

“What,” queries R. W. C., “has become of the little yellow crabs that floated in the o. f. oyster stew?” Junsaypa. We never found out what became of the little gold safety pins that used to come with neckties.

[p 203]
An innovation at the Murdock House in Shawano, Wis., is “Bouillon in cups,” instead of the conventional tin dipper.

By the way, has any candid merchant ever advertised a Good Riddance Sale?

Much has been written about Mr. Balfour in the last twelvemonth; and Mr. Balfour himself has published a book, a copy of which we are awaiting with more or less impatience. Mr. Balfour is not considered a success as a statesman, because he has always looked upon politics merely as a game; and Frank Harris once wrote that if A. B. had had to work for a living he might have risen to original thought—whatever that may imply.

What we have always marveled at is Balfour’s capacity for mental detachment. In the first year of the war he found time to deliver, extempore, the Gifford lectures, and in the next year he published “Theism and Humanism.” It is said, of course, that he had a great gift for getting or allowing other people to do his work in the war council and the admiralty; but that does not entirely explain his brimming mind.

“There is a fine old man,” as one of our readers reported his Irish gardener as saying of A. B. [p 204] />“Did you know Mr. Balfour?” he was asked. “Did I know him?” was the reply. “Didn’t I help rotten-egg him in Manchester twinty-five years ago!”

Col. Fanny Butcher relates that the average reader who patronizes the New York public library prefers Conan Doyle’s detective stories to any others. Quite naturally. There is more artistry in Poe, and the tales about the Frenchman, Arsène Lupin, are ten times more ingenious than Doyle’s; but Doyle has infused the adventures of Sherlock Holmes with the undefinable something known as romance, and that has preserved them. The great majority of detective stories are merely ingenious.

Col. Butcher says she uses “The Crock of Gold” to test the minds of people. A friend of ours employs “Zuleika Dobson” for the same purpose. What literary acid do you apply?

Our compliments to Mrs. Borah, who possesses a needed sense of humor. “If,” she is reported as saying to her husband, “if it were not for the pleasures of life you might enjoy it.”

A librarian confides to us that she was visited by a young lady who wished to see a large map [p 205] />of France. She was writing a paper on the battlefields of France for a culture club, and she just couldn’t find Flanders’ Fields and No Man’s Land on any of the maps in her books.

A sign, reported by B. R. J., in a Cedar Rapids bank announces: “We loan money on Liberty bonds. No other security required.” Showing that here and there you will find a banker who is willing to take a chance.

The first object of the National Parks association is “to fearlessly defend the national parks and monuments against assaults of private interests.” May we not hope that the w. k. infinitive also may be preserved intact?

A missionary from the Chicago Woman’s Club lectured in Ottawa on better English and less slang, and the local paper headed its story: “Bum Jabber Binged on Beezer by Jane With Trick Lingo.”

Young Grimes tells us that he would like to share in the advantages of Better Speech weeks, but does not know where to begin. We have started him off with the word “February.” If at the end of the week he can pronounce it Feb-ru-ary we shall give him the word “address.”

[p 206]
“This, being Better English week, everyone is doing their best to improve their English.”—Quincy, Mich., Herald.

Still, Jane Austen did it.

BETTER ENGLISH IN THE BEANERY.

Waiter: “Small on two—well!”

Chef: “Small well on two!” Tip.

HAPPY THOUGHT.

[p 207]
The Magic Kit.

A FAIRY TALE FOR SYMPATHETIC ELDERS.

I.

Once upon a time, not far removed from yesterday, there lived a poor book reviewer named Abner Skipp. He was a kindly man and an excellent husband and a most congenial soul to chat with, for he possessed a store of information on the most remote and bootless subjects drawn from his remarkable library—an accumulation of volumes sent to him for review, and which he had been unable to dispose of to the dealers in second-hand books. For you are to understand that too little literary criticism is done on a cash basis. Occasionally a famous author, like Mr. Howells, is paid real money to write something about Mr. James, or Mr. James is substantially rewarded for writing about Mr. Howells, and heads of departments and special workers are handsomely remunerated; but the journeyman reviewer is paid in books; and these are the source of his income.

Thus, every morning in the busy season, or perhaps once a week when trade was dull, Abner Skipp journeyed from the suburbs to the city with his pack of books on his back, and made the [p 208] />rounds of the second-hand shops, disposing of his wares for whatever they would fetch. Novels, especially what are known as the “best sellers,” commanded good prices if they were handled, like fruit, without delay; but they were such perishable merchandise that oftentimes a best seller was dead before Abner could get it to market; and as he frequently reviewed the same novel for half a dozen employers, and therefore had half a dozen copies of it in his pack, the poor wretch was sadly out of pocket, being compelled to sell the dead ones to the junkman for a few pennies.

Abner Skipp was an industrious artisan and very skillful at his trade; working at top speed, he could review more than a hundred books in a day of eight hours. In a contest of literary critics held in Madison Square Garden, New York, Abner won first prize in all three events—reviewing by publisher’s slip, reviewing by cover, and reviewing by title page. But shortly after this achievement he had had the misfortune to sprain his right arm in reviewing a new edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica, which accident so curtailed his earning power that he fell behind in a money way, and was compelled to mortgage his home. But Abner Skipp was a cheerful, buoyant soul; and as his arm grew better and he was again able to wield the implements of his trade, he set bravely to work to mend his broken fortunes.

[p 209]
II.

If Abner Skipp had had nothing but popular novels to review he would assuredly have perished of starvation, but frequently he received a medical work, or a history, or a volume of sportive philosophy by William James, or some such valuable work, which he could sell for a round sum. There was always plenty to do—all the best magazines employed him, and twice in the year—a month in spring and a month in fall—books came to him in such numbers that the expressman dumped them into the house through a shute like so many coals.

Mrs. Skipp assisted her husband all she could, but being a frail little woman she was able to work on only the lightest fiction. Angelica, the oldest daughter, cleared the book bin of a good deal of poetry and gift books, and even Grandpa Skipp was intrusted with a few juveniles.

But none of the family was more helpful than little Harold, who, after school time, worked side by side with his father, trimming the ready made review slips which publishers send out with books, and seeing that the paste pot never got empty or the paste too thick. Harold, as his father often proudly observed, was a born book reviewer. From infancy it was observed that the outside of a book always interested him more than the inside, and once when his school teacher directed [p 210] />him to write a sentence containing the word “book,” he wrote: “The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated.”

One evening, in the very busiest week of the busy season, little Harold’s was the only bright face at the supper table. Abner Skipp had had a bad day in the city; Mrs. Skipp and Angelica were exhausted from reviewing and household cares, and Grandpa was peevish because Abner had taken the “Pea Green Fairy Book” away from him and given him instead a “Child’s History of the Congo Free State.”

“What is the matter, Abner?” his wife asked him when the others of the family had retired. “Does your arm hurt you again?”

“No, wife,” replied Abner Skipp. “My arm does not trouble me; I have handled only the lightest literature for the last fortnight. Alas! it is the same old worry. The interest on the mortgage will be due again next week, and in spite of the fact that the cellar is so full of books that I can scarcely get into it, we have not a dollar above the sum required to meet our monthly bills.”

III.

“Alas!” exclaimed the hapless Abner Skipp, next morning, “it seems as if nothing was being published this fall except popular novels, and I obtained an average of less than twenty cents on [p 211] />the last sackload I took to town, not counting the dead ones which I sold to the junkman.”

“If only there were some way of keeping them alive for a few days longer!” said Mrs. Skipp. “If one could only stimulate the heart action by injecting strychnine!”

“Or even embalm them,” said Abner, sharing his wife’s grewsome humor. “But no; it is impossible to deceive a second-hand bookseller. He seems to know to the minute when a novel is dead, and declines to turn his shop into a literary morgue.” The poor man sighed. “If my employers would send me a few volumes of biography, or an encyclopedia, or a set of Shakespeare, we could easily meet the interest on the mortgage.”

“I wish, Abner, that I could be of more help to you,” said Mrs. Skipp. “If I could break myself of the habit of glancing at the last chapter of a novel before reviewing it, I could do ever so many more. Angelica is even more thoughtless than I. The poor child declares that some of the stories look so interesting that she forgets her work completely and actually begins to read them. As for Grandpa, he always was a great reader, and consequently has no head at all for reviewing.”

“If Harold were a few years older——” mused Abner. “But there, wife, we must not spend in [p 212] />vain repining the scant hours allotted to us for sleep. Perhaps the expressman will bring us some scientific books to-morrow. Quite a number were on Appletree’s fall list.”

Abner Skipp kissed his wife affectionately, and presently the house was dark and still. Mrs. Skipp, worn out by the day’s work, went quickly to sleep; but Abner, haunted by the mortgage, passed a restless night. Several times he fancied he heard a noise in the cellar, as if the expressman were dumping another ton of books into the bin. At last, just before dawn, there came a loud thump, as if a volume of Herbert Spencer’s Autobiography had fallen to the floor. Getting out of bed quietly so that his weary wife should not be disturbed, Abner went to the cellar stairway and listened.

A clicking sound was distinctly audible, and a faint light gleamed below.

IV.

Cautiously descending the stair, Abner Skipp came upon so strange a sight that with difficulty he restrained himself from crying out his astonishment. Little Harold was seated before a queer mechanism, which resembled a typewriter, spinning wheel, and adding machine combined, engaged in turning the tons of books around him into reviews, as the miller’s daughter spun the [p 213] />straw into gold, in the ancient tale of “Rumpelstiltzkin.”

“Child, what does this mean?” cried the bewildered Abner Skipp. “Father,” replied Harold, “I am lifting the mortgage. Not long ago I saw among the advertisements in the Saturday Home Herald an announcement of a Magic Kit for book reviewers, with a capacity of 300 books per hour. Fortunately I had enough money in my child’s bank to pay the first installment on this wonderful outfit which came to-day. Is it not a marvelous invention, father? Even Grandpa could work it!” Trembling with eagerness Abner Skipp bent over the Magic Kit, while little Harold explained the working of the various parts.

To review a book all that was necessary was to press a few keys, pull a lever or two, and the thing was done. Reviewing by publisher’s slip was simplicity itself; the slips were dropped into a hopper, and presently emerged neatly gummed to sheets of copy paper; and if an extract from the book were desired, a page was quickly torn out and fed in with the slip. Reviewing by title page was almost as rapid. The operator type-wrote the title, author’s name, publisher, price, and number of pages, and then pulled certain levers controlling the necessary words and phrases, such as—

[p 214]
“This latest work is not likely to add to the author’s reputation”; or—

“The book will appeal chiefly to specialists”; or—

“An excellent tale to while away an idle hour”; or—

“The book is attractively bound and is profusely illustrated.”

“Father,” said little Harold, his face glowing, “to-morrow we will hire a furniture van and take all these books to the city.”

“My boy,” cried Abner Skipp, folding his little son in his arms, “you are the little fairy in our home. Surely no other could have done this job more neatly or with greater dispatch; and no fairy wand could be more wonder-working than this truly Magic Kit.”