What name shall I give it?
Charley?
I was disgusted at the thought, because every Chinee—ten thousand Mongols in all—is named one Charley.
Merry Christmas, all of you!
26th—It rained.
I implored Mother Schuyler to select a book from her library.
All the literature was packed in there, beginning with Socrates, sane as a silver dollar.
Every book was without finger-marks. Book without finger-mark is like bread without brown crust. Dear finger-mark!
The fashion is to buy books and to glance at their covers, I suppose, but not to read them. Modern publications aren’t meant to be read, are they? The authors have degenerated to the place of upholsterers. Isn’t it a shame?
Mrs. Schuyler picked out for me “Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.”