g in the delicatessen store
are indelibly stamped with the pathos of his environment--"Thoughts in
Vinegar," a bitter satire on bohemianism--"Three Little Pickles," an
autobiography of the Barrymores as children and "The lonely Anchovy," a
whimsical fantasy which if we are to believe Town Topics made Sir James
Barrie quite furious.

The story of the sudden recognition of Jake D'Annunzio Spout's genius by
the more advanced literary coterie of New York City, etc., is widely
known but too charming to leave unmentioned. He was, so we are told,
seated on an upturned wooden box behind a pile of cheeses, sunk in a
reverie, when suddenly the door opened and three men came into the
store.

"We wish to see Jake D'Annunzio Spout," said the foremost with a rich
Harvard accent.

Jake rose shyly, knocking a Camembert to the ground in his
embarrassment. "I am he," he said blushing.

A grey-haired man sniffed and waved his hand comprehensively. "You must
leave these sordid surroundings," he said in a beautifully modulated
voice in which a bad cold and a Yale intonation struggled for
precedence, "and come with us."

"Where to?" cried Jake clutching a salami sausage with boyish
excitement.

All three men doffed their hats.

"To the Coffee House," they said reverently.

"At this point," says Earl Hank in his exquisite study, 'Spout Through
and Through,' tears of ecstasy gushed down the boy's cheeks. 'At last,'
he cried in a choked voice and swooned.

The three men gathered him up tenderly and carried him out towards the
Elevated--"

Of course the salient feature of Hank's study of Spout is the deep love
and affection for his subject which permeates every page. Nobody but a
true enthusiast and lover of beauty could ever have been so inspired. It
was not until reaching the intellectually austere atmosphere of the
Coffee House that Spout regained consciousness: he opened his eyes
wearily, but the light of dazzled amazement replaced fatigue when he
beheld the company that surrounded him--every man's face seemed to be
stamped indelibly with the ineffaceable mark of artistic achievement.
Spout rose in happy, awed wonderment.

Hands were stretched forth to him in welcome and friendship--one of the
younger members gave vent to a furtive cheer but was instantly
suppressed. Lunch, we are told, was to the newly-discovered poet a long
dream of ecstasy, with the exception of one incident which, though
somewhat painful, it is necessary