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So I bought the cuckoo clock; and if I ever get home with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the mines. I thought of another candidate a book-reviewer whom I could name if I wanted to but after thinking it over, I didn't buy him a clock. I couldn't injure his mind.
Now, then, it is a curious and a paradoxical thing that no man of masculine character can read the novels written by women to-day, unless he has to; that is, unless he is a book-reviewer, publisher's reader, magazine editor, proofreader, or some such thing. And the reason he can't do it, in view of George Moore's idea and Miss Austen's renowned magnetism, is curious indeed.
Some of them do short stories striking, rather biological, very destructive of conventions. Some of them are ever so handy at all forms; they are perennial candidates for any job as book-reviewer, dramatic critic, or manuscript-reader, since they have the naïve belief that these occupations require neither toil nor training, and enable one to "write on the side."
Henry asked. "Oh, yes, but it is dead now. Mother, you ought to see the young woman I saw at Henry's office the other day. Look, he's trying to blush. Oh, she's dazzling with her great blue eyes." Mrs. Witherspoon's look demanded an explanation. "Mother," said Henry, "she means our book-reviewer." "I don't like literary women," Mrs.
To be good and brave is better for a grown woman than to be "sweet" and "innocent," in the limited sense of these terms. A woman, like a man, should, "see life steadily, and see it whole." The foundation of a critical habit in reading has a practical bearing, inasmuch as it is a direct training for the positions of book-reviewer and manuscript reader for magazine and book publishers.
So I bought the cuckoo clock; and if I ever get home with it, he is "my meat," as they say in the mines. I thought of another candidate a book-reviewer whom I could name if I wanted to but after thinking it over, I didn't buy him a clock. I couldn't injure his mind.
The late Clyde Fitch printed The Girl with the Green Eyes. The third act of that play exhibits a very wonderful and searching study of feminine jealousy. But who has bothered to read it, and what accredited book-reviewer has troubled himself to accord it the notice it deserves? It is safe to say that that remarkable third act is remembered only by people who saw it acted in the theatre.
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