“Isn’t it fine, Mr. S——, about Frank Crawford?”
“Fine about Frank Crawford? Vot you mean?”
“Why, about his book—a great success. Haven’t you heard? Haven’t you read it?”
“Read his pook? No. Frank Crawford ride a pook? Imbossible!”
“Oh, yes; no doubt of it. Giuseppe,”—calling a salesman,—“let me have a copy of ‘Mr. Isaacs,’ please.”
When the volume was brought to the incredulous bookseller, he held it at arm’s-length, looking at it curiously as he turned it from side to side and from end to end; then he cautiously examined the title-page, with its “—th edition,” which he greeted with a guttural “Huh!” Next he turned to the last page, and read the concluding sentence with another grunt of astonishment. Then he dipped into the volume in two or three places, and finally, satisfied that he was not being deceived, handed back the book to Giuseppe without looking at him, and said:
“Vell, vell! dot brooves dot you must neffer trown a poy.”
THOUGHTS, DECEMBER TWENTY-FOURTH
BY DEEMS TAYLOR
’TIS Christmas eve. The very air