ith that as I did with the deviled eggs. Or he
may nibble at "The House-Boat on the Styx" while some one is passing
the Shakespeare along. He may like Emerson, and ask for a second
helping, and that's all right, too, for that's a nourishing sort of
food. Having partaken of this generously, he will enjoy all the more
the jelly when it comes along in the form of "Nonsense Anthology."
The more I think of it the more I see that reading is very like a
picnic dinner. It is all good, and one takes the food which is
nearest him, whether pie or pickles.

When any one asks me what I am reading, I become much embarrassed. I
may be reading a catalogue of books at the time, or the book notices
in some magazine, but such reading may not seem orthodox at all to
the one who asks the question. My reading may be too desultory or
too personal to be paraded in public. I don't make it a practice to
tell all the neighbors what I ate for breakfast. I like to saunter
along through the book just as I ride in a gondola when in Venice.
I'm not going anywhere, but get my enjoyment from merely being on the
way. I pay the gondolier and then let him have his own way with me.
So with the book. I pay the money and then abandon myself to it. If
it can make me laugh, why, well and good, and I'll laugh. If it
causes me to shed tears, why, let the tears flow. They may do me
good. If I ever become conscious of the number of the page of the
book I am reading, I know there is something the matter with that
book or else with me. If I ever become conscious of the page number
in David Grayson's "Adventures in Contentment," or "The Friendly
Road," I shall certainly consult a physician. I do become
semiconscious at times that I am approaching the end of the feast,
and feel regret that the book is not larger.

I have spasms and enjoy them. Sometimes, I have a Dickens spasm, and
read some of his books for the _n_th time. I have frittered away
much time in my life trying to discover whether a book is worth a
second reading. If it isn't, it is hardly worth a first reading, I
don't get tired of my friend Brown, so why should I put Dickens off
with a mere society call? If I didn't enjoy Brown I'd not visit him
so frequently; but, liking him, I go again and again. So with
Dickens, Mark Twain, and Shakespeare. The story goes that a second
Uncle Remus was sitting on a stump in the depths of a forest sawing
away on an old discordant violin. A man, w