A small man in a large ulster, addressing Miss Vanderpyl, in honeyed tones: "Oh, pardon me! Have you 'The Blandishments of Belinda' in this library?"
Miss V. (working with both hands at once, charging books, and trying to keep thirty-seven people from becoming impatient): "Er—I—am not sure. Who is the author?"
The small man (bowing gracefully, with the tips of his fingers on his heart): "I, who now address you, Madam."
Miss V. (after wondering vainly what light this answer throws on her difficulty, and seeking for a reply which shall not seem impertinent): "I really am not sure,—probably we have it. Would you mind looking it up in the catalogue, please?"
The small man: "I beg pardon?"
Miss V. (indicating): "In the catalogue,—over there."
The small man: "Oh, those horrid cards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in their dreadful meshes! I fear I might never survive it, you know. Is there no other way? Ah, red tape! red tape!"
(He hovers about for an instant, and then flits away.)
A very large woman, with an armful of bundles (depositing six books on the desk with a crash, and heaving a sigh that scatters the call-slips and memoranda right and left): "There! If my arms ain't nearly fallin' off! Say, you oughta give shawlstraps to carry these books with. Now, here's 'The Life Beautiful,'—I wanta return that, and 'The Romance of Two Worlds' an' 'Cometh up as a Flower,'—why, no, it ain't either,—it's 'Family Hymns'—if I ain't gone and picked that up off the settin'-room table and lugged it all this way, an' I told Hattie to keep her hands off them books,—well, I'll put it back in my bag—here, young man! you leave that alone—that don't belong to the liberry. Now, here's this, an' this, an' I want this swapped onto this card, an' this one I want renood an' I wanta get 'Airy, Fairy Lilian' an'—oh, Lord! there goes my macaroni onto the floor,—all smashed to smithereens, I s'pose—no, 't ain't, either,—thank you, young man! Now, if you'll just—"