* * * * *

It is interesting to note that cement is usually packed in cloth sacks, although sometimes paper bags are used.

“A charge is made for packing cement in paper bags,” the books says.  “These, of course, are not redeemable.”

One can understand their not wanting to take back a paper bag in which cement has been wrapped.  The wonder is that the bag lasts until you get home with it.  I tried to take six cantaloups home in a paper bag the other night and had a bad enough time of it.  Cement, when it is in good form, must be much worse than cantaloup, and the redeemable remnants of the bag must be negligible.  But why charge extra for using paper bags?  That seems like adding whatever it is you add to injury.  Apologies, rather than extra charge, should be in order.  However, I suppose that these cement people understand their business.  I shall know enough to watch out, however, and insist on having whatever cement I may be called upon to carry home done up in a cloth sack.  “Not in a paper bag, if you please,” I shall say very politely to the clerk.

L

OPEN BOOKCASES

Things have come to a pretty pass when a man can’t buy a bookcase that hasn’t got glass doors on it.  What are we becoming—­a nation of weaklings?

All over New York city I have been,—­trying to get something in which to keep books.  And what am I shown?  Curio cabinets, inclosed whatnots, museum cases in which to display fragments from the neolithic age, and glass-faced sarcophagi for dead butterflies.

“But I am apt to use my books at any time,” I explain to the salesman.  “I never can tell when it is coming on me.  And when I want a book I want it quickly.  I don’t want to have to send down to the office for the key, and I don’t want to have to manipulate any trick ball-bearings and open up a case as if I were getting cream-puffs out for a customer.  I want a bookcase for books and not books for a bookcase.”

(I really don’t say all those clever things to the clerk.  It took me quite a while to think them up.  What I really say is, timidly, “Haven’t you any bookcases without glass doors?” and when they say “No,” I thank them and walk into the nearest dining-room table.)

But if they keep on getting arrogant about it I shall speak up to them one of these fine days.  When I ask for an open-faced bookcase they look with a scornful smile across the salesroom toward the mahogany four-posters and say: 

“Oh, no, we don’t carry those any more.  We don’t have any call for them.  Every one uses the glass-doored ones now.  They keep the books much cleaner.”

Then the ideal procedure for a real book-lover would be to keep his books in the original box, snugly packed in excelsior, with the lid nailed down.  Then they would be nice and clean.  And the sun couldn’t get at them and ruin the bindings.  Faugh! (Try saying that.  It doesn’t work out at all as you think it’s going to.  And it makes you feel very silly for having tried it.)