Booker's Books.
Barton Booker was very fond of collecting books, and spent a large part of his income in buying them. He filled up his house with book-shelves, room after room, along all the walls, and even crossing in the middle of the room. Carpenters added extra supports to the house to carry the load.
Barton Booker arranged his books very carefully, according to topics logically subdivided, and under each topic the authors were placed alphabetically. It was Booker's boast that he could lay his hands on any desired volume in an instant.
Moreover, he made a careful catalogue of his library, which he always carried with him, so that he could pick up books as he came across them in going about the city, and run no risk of duplicating what he had; since of course he could not carry in his mind twenty thousand titles.
One day a friend asked him, "Why in the name of common sense do you collect so many books? Will you ever read them all?"
"Yes, indeed," said Booker hopefully. "I am looking forward with great eagerness to the pleasure and profit of reading them all. I have literary plans which take in every one of them."
The next day Barton Booker died.
The Magazines Talk.
The magazines on the center-table discussed which was the greatest.
"I am," said The Corpulent Monthly, "for I have at least a third more pages than any other periodical here."
"Who ever heard," replied the electric lamp, "that literature was rated by cubic measure?"
"I am the greatest," said The Fashion Magazine, "for the women folk rush to me at once, and can scarcely lay me down."
"So they rush to their mirrors," the lamp suggested, "and for the same empty reason."
"I am the greatest," declared The Ponderous Review, "for not a member of the family can understand a page of me."
But the lamp retorted, "That would also be true of Mother Goose in Choctaw."
"I must be the greatest," said The Fiction Monthly, "for my readers are oblivious to everything else, and I often hold them till midnight."
"Yes," the lamp retorted, "and then they throw you down and say, 'That fool magazine!' "
"I am the greatest," said The Practical Monthly, "for I deal with the work of the home, and of the wide world outside."
"You are to be respected," the lamp agreed; "but so is an egg-beater."
"I am the greatest," said The Literary Luminary, "for only the most exquisite word-artists write for me, in poetry and prose."
"Yes," the lamp admitted, "you are admired, and justly; but you are not loved."
One magazine remained, and scarcely ventured to murmur, "The mother was cheered when she read me, and the father was kinder for a week; but of course I know I am not great."
"You are great," said the lamp quickly. "You are the greatest of all, for you are the most helpful."
The Bookworms' Convention.
One night the bookworms assembled on the library table. How the gathering was summoned, or what it was for, I am not informed, nor does it matter. The first business was the election of a chairman-more accurately, a chair-worm.
One of the company climbed painfully upon the inkwell and nominated himself for the office. Said he, "I am best fitted for the position because I have eaten straight through the unabridged dictionary."
"But I," objected another worm, "have eaten through the first four volumes of the encyclopedia, which is a distance twice the width of the dictionary. I am best adapted to be chairworm."
"Pooh!" exclaimed a particularly fat worm. "I have penetrated Wiseun's Philosophy to page 421, and what more could you ask of a presiding officer?"
"That's nothing!" another worm de-dared. "I have bored straight through the five volumes of Rollin's Ancient History, covers and all. I am your worm for precedents!"
Thereupon a pandemonium arose, each worm lifting up the fore half of his body, swaying wildly in the air, and proclaiming his own deeds of learned penetration and consequent ability as president of the meeting.
But of a sudden a dazzling glare blinded the quarreling worms and hushed their contentions. It came from a firefly who had crept the evening before through a hole in the screen.
"Silly creatures!" he cried, "it isn't the books you have devoured that count, but the books you remember. Now I will determine your fitness by examining each of you on the book or books he has eaten. Who will be the first to be tested? "
There was an ominous silence, and the sound of crawling all over the table. Thereupon the firefly flashed out once more, and discovered that he was left entirely alone.
A Certain Use for Literature.
A well-known dealer in old books and periodicals was telling me of a queer order he once received. The customer wanted twelve bundles of old magazines, twelve numbers in each bundle. The magazines were to be the same all the way through, and each bundle was to contain the same twelve numbers as all the others. It made no difference what the magazine might be, or the numbers, provided all the bundles were exactly alike.
The secret of the strange order was this. The purchaser intended to try certain sorts of cartridges,—he was a dealer in them,-and he wanted to measure their penetrating power. Therefore he intended to set up these bundles of magazines and fire away at them. The resistance would be the same in every case, since the number of pages would be the same and the paper would be of precisely the same thickness and quality. By noting, therefore, how many pages were punctured by each shot he would have an index of the power of each cartridge. It was an ingenious method.
I am especially interested in it because it suggests an altogether new use for literature. Indeed, there are some magazines, and many books, for which this would be the most appropriate use. I know nothing that can be done with them better than this, to tie them up in bundles and pepper them with bullets. Some of us have for years been firing words at them and charges of evil, but we should enjoy having a shot at them with actual powder and ball. It would not be an auto da fe, but it would be a polite and wholly justified modern substitute for that custom of the olden days.
"Let Me Introduce Mr. Jailbird."
Here is a beautiful young girl. Purity makes a splendor in her fair face. Modesty and grace attend her every movement. She walks among men as a priestess of holy thoughts and high ideals.
But hold! What do I see in her hands? Can I believe my eyes? It is a copy of Smudge's Magazine!
And can I believe my ears? She is actually saying: "I think Smudge's Magazine is just too lovely for any use. Why, I read it from cover to cover, every month."
My dear girl, I have someone across the street whom I want to bring over and introduce to you. To be sure, he is just out of the penitentiary, where he has been serving a ten years' sentence for burglary. To be sure, he killed his partner in crime, as the police believe, over a quarrel about the spoils; but they couldn't prove it. To be sure, he is notoriously licentious. To be sure, he is a beastly drunkard. But as you seem to enjoy that sort of company, I'll call him over and—
Why! where has the girl gone? And what made her fly off in a huff?
Smudge's Magazine, from cover to cover, every month, is crowded with successful criminals, it smells of liquor and tobacco on every page, it reeks with low intrigues and lustful pictures. If she likes to introduce such people and scenes to the sacra privata of her mind, how could she object to a mere outward introduction?
How inconsistent folks are, anyway!