-brother to that of the
mother-in-law. The book clerk of this view is a familiar figure in the
pages of humour, like the talkative barber or the comic Irishman of the
vaudeville stage--a stock character. His illiteracy is classic; his
ignorant sayings irresistable. He was sired by Charles Keene and
damned by Punch. Phil May was his godfather; and every industrious
humourist employs him periodically. These two ideas of the book
business are perhaps reconciled by the popularly cherished sentiment
that book sellers are not what they were. Newspapers from time to time
print feature articles about the days "When Book Sellers Knew Books."
If you ask a salesman in a modern book shop if he has "Praed," you of
course expect him to reply, "I have, sir (or madam), but it doesn't
seem to do any good."

Well, at the Zoo there is humour from the inside looking out, as well
as from the outside looking in. The book clerk is in the position to
remark certain human phenomena patent to him beyond the view of any
other, most curious, perhaps, among them a pleasant hypocrisy. "Oh!"
purls a sweet lady, pausing to glance for the space of a second at her
surroundings, "I think books are just fine!" "I love to be in a book
store," rattles a vivacious young woman. "Books have the greatest
fascination for me," says another. A young lady waiting for friends
looks out of the front door the entire time. Her friends express
regret at having kept her waiting. "Oh!" she exclaims, "I have been so
happy here"--glancing quickly around at the books--"I should just like
to be left here a couple of years." There is a respectful pause by all
for an instant, each bringing into her face an expression of adoration
for the dear things of the mind. Then, chatting gaily, the party
hastens away. We turn to hear, "Oh, wouldn't you love to live in a
book shop!"

What is it that all men say in a book shop? The great say it, even,
and the far from great. Each in his turn looks solemnly at his
companion or at the salesman and says: "Of the making of books there is
no end." Then each in his turn lights into a smile. He has said
something pretty good.

"There are persons esteemed on their reputation," says the "Imitation
of Christ," "who by showing themselves destroy the opinion one had of
them." Though one might think it would be the other way, it is
difficult, indeed, to sell a book to a friend of the author. "Oh, I
know the man who wrote that,"