Across his mind flashed a vision of newspaper clippings—“This remarkable student of letters, who hides his brilliant parts under the unassuming existence of a secondhand bookseller, is now recognized as the—”
“Roger!” called Mrs. Mifflin from downstairs: “Front! someone wants to know if you keep back numbers of Foamy Stories.”
After he had thrown out the intruder, Roger returned to his meditation. “This selection,” he mused, “is of course only tentative. It is to act as a preliminary test, to see what sort of thing interests her. First of all, her name naturally suggests Shakespeare and the Elizabethans. It’s a remarkable name, Titania Chapman: there must be great virtue in prunes! Let’s begin with a volume of Christopher Marlowe. Then Keats, I guess: every young person ought to shiver over St. Agnes’ Eve on a bright cold winter evening. Over Bemerton’s, certainly, because it’s a bookshop story. Eugene Field’s Tribune Primer to try out her sense of humour. And Archy, by all means, for the same reason. I’ll go down and get the Archy scrapbook.”
It should be explained that Roger was a keen admirer of Don Marquis, the humourist of the New York Evening Sun. Mr. Marquis once lived in Brooklyn, and the bookseller was never tired of saying that he was the most eminent author who had graced the borough since the days of Walt Whitman. Archy, the imaginary cockroach whom Mr. Marquis uses as a vehicle for so much excellent fun, was a constant delight to Roger, and he had kept a scrapbook of all Archy’s clippings. This bulky tome he now brought out from the grotto by his desk where his particular treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard him utter shrill screams of laughter.
“What on earth is it?” she asked.
“Only Archy,” he said, and began to read aloud—
down in a wine vault underneath the city
two old men were sitting they were drinking booze
torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty
one had an overcoat but hardly any shoesoverhead the street cars through the streets were running
filled with happy people going home to christmas
in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning
big ships were sailing down by the isthmusin came a little tot for to kiss her granny
such a little totty she could scarcely tottle
saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny
but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle.outside the snowflakes began for to flutter
far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen
not another word did angel nanny utter
her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demonup spake the second man he was worn and weary
tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty
she loved her parents who commuted on the erie
brother im afraid you struck a trifle hastyshe came to see you all her pretty duds on
bringing christmas posies from her mothers garden
riding in the tunnel underneath the hudson
brother was it rum caused your heart to harden—
“What on earth is there funny in that?” said Mrs. Mifflin. “Poor little lamb, I think it was terrible.”
“There’s more of it,” cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue.
“No more, thank you,” said Helen. “There ought to be a fine for using the meter of Love in the Valley that way. I’m going out to market so if the bell rings you’ll have to answer it.”
Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania’s shelf, and went on browsing over the volumes he had collected.
“The Nigger of the Narcissus,” he said to himself, “for even if she doesn’t read the story perhaps she’ll read the preface, which not marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens’ Christmas Stories to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies. Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many of them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortal lodgings? The Notebooks of Samuel Butler, just to give her a little intellectual jazz. The Wrong Box, because it’s the best farce in the language. Travels with a Donkey, to show her what good writing is like. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse to give her a sense of pity for human woes—wait a minute, though: that’s a pretty broad book for young ladies. I guess we’ll put it aside and see what else there is. Some of Mr. Mosher’s catalogues: fine! they’ll show her the true spirit of what one booklover calls biblio-bliss. Walking-Stick Papers—yes, there are still good essayists running around. A bound file of Publishers’ Weekly to give her a smack of trade matters. Jo’s Boys in case she needs a little relaxation. The Lays of Ancient Rome and Austin Dobson to show her some good poetry. I wonder if they give them The Lays to read in school nowadays? I have a horrible fear they are brought up on the battle of Salamis and the brutal redcoats of ’76. And now we’ll be exceptionally subtle: we’ll stick in a Robert Chambers to see if she falls for it.”
He viewed the shelf with pride. “Not bad,” he said to himself. “I’ll just add this Leonard Merrick, Whispers About Women, to amuse her. I bet that title will start her guessing. Helen will say I ought to have included the Bible, but I’ll omit it on purpose, just to see whether the girl misses it.”
With typical male curiosity he pulled out the bureau drawers to see what disposition his wife had made of them, and was pleased to find a little muslin bag of lavender dispersing a quiet fragrance in
