The Saint Paul globe. (St. Paul, Minn.) 1896-1905, 1901-09-22

Poor Pete, the Peanut Peddler" and
Sturdy Steve, the Shoestring King
The young girls are not particularly
bothersome. nor particularly the reverse,
as customers, yet one thing is striking.
One need not be at all purist to find
matter for marvel in so many lasses of
eighteen reading the "Decameron, y
''Heptameron "Manon Lescaut," and
Balzac's "Droll Stories.''
But woman, Oh, woman, To the book
seller, whose brow generally is assaIed
by care and pain, she proves to be any
thing other than ministering angel,
and he sadly realizes that 1.-The days are
gone when beauty bright his heart s
chain wove." She asks for Helen s
Babies" You have no copy. ''Wen, any
of hers will dol know she wrote lott
Or she wants a Bible, pocket size, with
large and easy print Or perhaps
Dickens, complete in one volume. Or,
| again, copy of Shakespeare. You show
several, which she scrutinizes closely;
and then, with marked disapproval, she
says she don't want it in those funny
lines, so hard to read, but wrote out in
story. Like the Duchess books, you
know!' She asks you, to the intense
qualification of the onlookers Especially
your friends) if you are the old book
seller" Maybe after while she dis
covers a book she likes. Ten cents!'
she cries why, i bought bigger one
down town for fivei' And she brings in
novel, purchased some weeks ago. She
wishes to exchange it. Oh, yes, she read
IT. (And the book truly looks it, But
she didn't like it at all. AS she strenu-
ously objects to paying anything for the
privilege of exchanging, you naturally
demur, and so she departs in a huff,
speeding the Parthian arrow that she'll
never come into your poky old place
again.
And then. the deckle edges Now I am
filled with wonderment that the booksell-
ers have not long ere this met in solemn
conclave, beseeching the publishers of all
lands to eschew deckle edges. now and
forevermore. The scornful unbelief me
whitening wrath, of the lady whom you
ny to persuade that deckle edges are not
undenlable evidence of a book being ''un-
nnlShed, is something fearSome to be-
hold. She wouldn't give that book to
anyone for PRESENT. must be a sec
ond. Despite your patient scientific ex-
pIanat1on she leaves, fully convinced that
you nave failed most ingloriously to palm
off on her an imperfect volume
The noble order of bibliolaters. or book
collectors-may their shadow never grow
less, may they live a Thousand years!
But alackaday, how much You hear of
that gallant band how little you see of
II! COZ course one does not include those
VINO collect without paying) At times
one almost gets to believe, in a dreamy
way, that the book collector is a poetfcal
4cllon' literary myth, like Andrew
Lang.
AS to the bibliokIepts They are of two
kinds, the insiders and the outsiders-who
are mainly boys. The latter are by far
preferable, giving you, at least, "a run
lot your money" For instance, you select
some OF those tones known to the trade
by the euphonious title of plugs" mark
tnem ruthlessly, and stack them I'D out
sloe' You wonder, meekly, will they go
-that cheap line ought to cause a fur
ry' And sure enough, as soon as ever
your back is turned, they do go, rather
Hufrlea!y' You rush to the door and
set off in hot haste after the feet-footed
urchlns. But all to no avail, and Won
return, ruefully recognizing the truth of
the Old adage that The who runs NAV
read" 10y
But, worst of all. are the non-buvers
lle UBIQUITOUS and immortal bores, or
providers. Do they every buvY No
never. They would be forswearine al,
leslance to the clan abjuring sacred vows
TO their tutelar deity, if they did. If a
genuine bore did buy a book there Would
speedily be one bookseller the less In
town. They never ask for a work which
- ~ lne sure, ana they happen to have
picked up long ago much better comics
OF anything good you have in stock
Year in, year out, they keep this up. until
at last you fancy that you are not a
BOOKSELLER but a bookkeeper Not thar
one expects a body to buy whenever he
comes IN. But the bore who never bl1ys
VINO never did buy except perhaps in
some remote period whereof the memory
OF man goeth not to the contrary the
MeDhlStODlelaan hOro Who
the air of an accusing angel and heaps
upon you labors beside which those OF
Tantalus were but as the official duties
OF some lucky Brooklyn convert to Tam
many hall-ah, why have we not formed
Society for the Prevention of Cruelty
to Booksellers?
Your bore often meets another bore in
your place, whom, of course, he knows.
ana they agree cordially in everything
dlsparag.ng to yourself and your goods l
have come to think they make periodical
appointments there. And, don't they
grumble! Not sufficient light, never
enough ventilation, never warm in win
ter-rea1ly, you should buy more coal
In the dog days, sitting! Why don't YOU
get an electric fan? Not open soon
enough in the mornings, and then, such
early closing hours! And they enjoy
pointing out how stupidity your books are
classified, and they show you how you
should have arranged your window.
They lay their wise heads together and
jubilantly demonstrate your deplorable
ignorance, with satanic glee correcting
you about bindings, sizes, authors, first
editions, etc. They prove their blase
familiarity with fine books by slamming
your daintiest treasures, dropping them,
leaving them open upside down, and
opening them so abruptly that the backs
crack audibly. They exchange messy
"reminiscences of the tQONd old
when one (meaning one bore) could
pick up" choice rarities like Fan
Shave" and 'Tamerlane'' on the five and
ten-cent stands Oh, can't they tell ter
rife taradiddles about thati Neverthe-
less, they insist, with significant glances
at your diminished head that in those
halcyon times 1.-The man who sold books
knew something"
But there is an undertone of pathos, "a
note of more prevailing Sadness as
when you are called to the home of some
stanch worshiper of good reading forced
by adversely (perhaps less of work, the
death of a dear wife, or Illness of below
ed children), to part with those cherished
volumes, acquired so lovingly through
many years. He has bought, it may be,
this bit of Goldsmith here, this bit of
Addison there, these relics Of old half
forgotten authors (such as Maginn, or
Inglis. or MacNish), variously-and now,
ah, now he has to sell them ALL ALI!
You differentiate between such a man
and certain wealthy people who expect
nearly as much for books as they cost
so you make your very best offer, which
he always accepts You have secured
no great bargain, goodness knows But
well, he was SO poor, and you saw
MIN looking quiet goodbye to his little
library, and you cannot help wondering
ct O.,