"These Englishmen are rather long winded at times", approved Mr. Huntington. "Humph! Americans are just as bad. Take President Emeritus Eliot of Harvard, with his five foot shelf of classics! Bennett's offense and Eliot's differ only in kind; not in degree. Bennett feeds you literature by the hour; Eliot by the foot. They're all part and parcel of the same combination a combination in restraint of original thought." He shot a challenging glance at Mr. Huntington, but before the other could frame a reply he continued: "Then came the war, and with it blue books, green books, white books, pink books, mauve books; books of every color in the spectrum. And as for the books after the war He shook his head wearily. 99 Mr. Huntington curled his feet up under him and lighted a cigarette. For a minute there was silence in the big library. The burglar gazed moodily at the dying fire. Mr. Huntington glanced complacently at his polished nails. Then, seeing that, apparently, his guest's ire had burned itself out, he coughed cautiously. "Ahem . . . er have you read my latest work, 'Trifling with Destiny"?" "No; I haven't read anything for a month", mumbled the burglar sulkily. "A month ago, in a fit of revulsion, I burned everything in my house that contained a printed word - books, papers, magazines, insurance policies, temperance tracts, real estate folders. Even my wife's cookbook and my baby's bankbook were destroyed in my burst of iconoclastic wrath. "That's why I left a window open in your hall tonight. I intended, if I saw a book, to flee. I purposed going directly to the dining room. But I stumbled into the library. And . . . I admit it with shame.. I fell! "Now," he said slowly, "if you will give me two minutes' grace before you telephone the police, I should like to finish this book." "I have no thought of turning you over to the police", said the author, with his politest bow. "Pray finish your reading." The way the burglar smiled made Mr. Huntington think of schooldays once more. It was as if he were being thanked by the teacher for the gift of a rosy cheeked apple. His guest pushed his spectacles down over his nose and, opening the book, read. Before Mr. Huntington had had time to light another cigarette, he closed the book softly and looked up. "Well?" inquired Mr. Huntington. "Rotten!" said the burglar. He arose with a yawn. "Well, I guess I'll be going." "Must you, really? That's too bad. I thought perhaps you might like to discuss a novel I have in mind when I finish 'Fate's Messenger', but of course .. Here, just a moment. I want you to take this as a souvenir of your visit." ... From a nearby shelf he took down a leather bound volume. "Special edition of 'Trifling with Destiny', type distributed, autographed by the author, for my intimate friends", he explained. Twin shadows of dismay and disgust chased each other across the dyspeptic countenance of the burglar. Reluctantly he accepted the book and stuffed it into the pocket of his shabby coat. Holding his bathrobe close about his bare legs, Mr. Huntington preceded his guest to the open window in the hall. It seemed to occur to neither that the front door offered a more convenient Down the Hill of Ludgate, Up the Hill of Fleet, To and fro and East and West, On Temple Bar must beat From "Peacock Pie" by Walter de la Mare. their arrival in England. "The Cries of London are in Piccadilly, Nicholas, and Miss Primrose invites us to go with her. We are all to have luncheon first", she says, "with our Fairy Godmother, at a lovely French restaurant in Soho. I know you'll like Miss Primrose. She's tells the CHERRIES were ripe in the or- Polimero st. She's Scotch and t and Ann Caraway came riding through Canterbury to London. Cherries were ripe in Covent Garden Market and on all the fruit stalls round about St. Paul's. "Round and Sound sang Ann Caraway the morning after *Illustrations for this article are reproduced by courtesy of Wilbur Macy Stone from old children's books in his collection. 99 "Let's run right round to the post office and send her a telegram, Ann Caraway. It sounds to me like a good time." And it was a good time, from the delightful luncheon party in Soho to the gay eighteenth century fête in Piccadilly where the Cries of old London came alive to Nicholas. "Do you want any Matches?" cried a little Match Girl as Nicholas passed by. just now", he called back. "Sweet China Oranges, cried an old Orange Woman in a voice like a cracked teacup. "I nearly always want an orange", said Nicholas, and he stopped the barrow she was wheeling along to buy one. "Knives, Scissors, and Razors to Grind!" cried the Scissors Grinder in three sharps. Nicholas felt for his knife. "I haven't any razors nor scissors", he said, "but my knife wants sharpening." A wonderful dark eyed Italian Dancing Man with a tambourine sang a song to Nicholas as he passed by and set him dancing to the tune of a barrel organ.. "It's a lovely party, Miss Primrose!" said Nicholas. "And it's going to be still lovelier," cried Ann Caraway, "for here comes Ellen Terry with her arms full of rosemary and lavender." "Who is Ellen Terry?" asked Nicholas. "A great English actress, who is almost as much loved in America as she is in England", replied Ann Caraway. "Let's follow on behind while she visits the stalls!" Walking behind Ellen Terry as she passed from stall to stall - laughing and chatting with the lovely young girls in picture book dresses who were selling Banbury cakes and lollipops, Shrewsbury cakes and Bath buns, dream books and riddle books, cherries and strawberries, roses and lilies, old songs and ballads - they came at last to the door of the concert hall. "Tickets for the concert not going very well, my dear?" they heard her say. "Tell them Ellen Terry will recite something if you think it will help." In no time at all every ticket was sold, and if Miss Primrose had not known just how to choose the right seats in a hurry Nicholas and Ann Caraway would never have been able to sit where they could see Ellen Terry all through the concert. "She's having her tea", whispered Nicholas. "Look, Ann Caraway, she's nodding and clapping to everyone with her hands full of teacup." When she came out upon the platform everybody clapped, and clapped, and clapped. It seemed to Nicholas that they were never going to let her begin. But at last to his great joy he heard her voice. "I am going to recite the first piece I ever learned - the story of Little Red Riding Hood - I may not remember all the verses, but you will forgive me if I forget", and with a smile that warmed and lighted up the whole audience, Ellen Terry began to recite "Little Red Riding Hood" in rhyme. Everybody clapped, and clapped, and clapped all over again when she finished and refused to let her go back to her seat in the audience until they had heard once more from her lips: The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. "The first time I ever saw Ellen Terry she was Portia in 'The Merchant of Venice"", said Ann Caraway to Miss Primrose. "I shall always see her as she looked that night. The last time I heard her read those lines, twenty years after, she was standing in the Neighborhood Playhouse on our East Side with a great book open before her and she was wearing a glorious gown. "I've been thinking all afternoon of the children of the East Side and their festivals and plays. They love Red bunch of violets Miss Primrose gave you?" suggested Nicholas. "I'll tell her the East Side children sent them by the Primrose special", he chuckled, waving his hand at Miss Primrose. "They'd like to have us do it." As they passed out of the concert hall Nicholas put the little bunch of violets into Ellen Terry's hands with a special greeting from the New York children of the East Side. "Give them all my love", said Ellen Terry with a smile that lighted up the whole distance from Piccadilly to East Broadway. |