Now,
here is a magazine that once printed Poe and Lowell and Whitman and
Bret Harte and Du Maurier and Lanier and--well, that gives you the
idea. The current number has this literary feast to set before you:
an article on the stokers and coal bunkers of battleships, an expose
of the methods employed in making liverwurst, a continued story of a
Standard Preferred International Baking Powder deal in Wall Street,
a 'poem' on the bear that the President missed, another 'story' by
a young woman who spent a week as a spy making overalls on the East
Side, another 'fiction' story that reeks of the 'garage' and a
certain make of automobile. Of course, the title contains the words
'Cupid' and 'Chauffeur'--an article on naval strategy, illustrated
with cuts of the Spanish Armada, and the new Staten Island
ferry-boats; another story of a political boss who won the love of
a Fifth Avenue belle by blackening her eye and refusing to vote
for an iniquitous ordinance (it doesn't say whether it was in the
Street-Cleaning Department or Congress), and nineteen pages by the
editors bragging about the circulation. The whole thing, Sammy, is an
obituary on Romance."
Sammy Brown sat comfortably in the leather armchair by the open
window. His suit was a vehement brown with visible checks,
beautifully matched in shade by the ends of four cigars that his vest
pocket poorly concealed. Light tan were his shoes, gray his socks,
sky-blue his apparent linen, snowy and high and adamantine his
collar, against which a black butterfly had alighted and spread his
wings.
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