An American friend of Edmond Rostand says that the great dramatist once told him of a curious encounter he had had with a local magistrate in a town not far from his own.

It appears that Rostand had been asked to register the birth of a friend’s newly arrived son.  The clerk at the registry office was an officious little chap, bent on carrying out the letter of the law.  The following dialogue ensued: 

“Your name, sir?”

“Edmond Rostand.”

“Vocation?”

“Man of letters, and member of the French Academy.”

“Very well, sir.  You must sign your name.  Can you write?  If not, you may make a cross.”—­Howard Morse.

George W. Cable, the southern writer, was visiting a western city where he was invited to inspect the new free library.  The librarian conducted the famous writer through the building until they finally reached the department of books devoted to fiction.

“We have all your books, Mr. Cable,” proudly said the librarian.  “You see there they are—­all of them on the shelves there:  not one missing.”

And Mr. Cable’s hearty laugh was not for the reason that the librarian thought!

Brief History of a Successful Author:  From ink-pots to flesh-pots—­R.R.  Kirk.

“It took me nearly ten years to learn that I couldn’t write stories.”

“I suppose you gave it up then?”

“No, no.  By that time I had a reputation.”

“I dream my stories,” said Hicks, the author.

“How you must dread going to bed!” exclaimed Cynicus.

The five-year-old son of James Oppenheim, author of “The Olympian,” was recently asked what work he was going to do when he became a man.  “Oh,” Ralph replied, “I’m not going to work at all.”  “Well, what are you going to do, then?” he was asked.  “Why,” he said seriously, “I’m just going to write stories, like daddy.”

William Dean Howells is the kindliest of critics, but now and then some popular novelist’s conceit will cause him to bristle up a little.

“You know,” said one, fishing for compliments, “I get richer and richer, but all the same I think my work is falling off.  My new work is not so good as my old.”

“Oh, nonsense!” said Mr. Howells.  “You write just as well as you ever did.  Your taste is improving, that’s all.”

James Oliver Curwood, a novelist, tells of a recent encounter with the law.  The value of a short story he was writing depended upon a certain legal situation which he found difficult to manage.  Going to a lawyer of his acquaintance he told him the plot and was shown a way to the desired end.  “You’ve saved me just $100,” he exclaimed, “for that’s what I am going to get for this story.”

A week later he received a bill from the lawyer as follows:  “For literary advice, $100.”  He says he paid.

“Tried to skin me, that scribbler did!”

“What did he want?”