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Updated: May 20, 2025
"Why, I can show you the names of men whom you would not think of suspecting, and yet who are acting for the German government in America." "Is that so, sir?" "It is indeed. Wait." General Rentzel arose, approached the big safe in the rear of the room, unlocked it and took there from a small paper-bound book. He returned to his seat at the table.
The other day, prowling about a bookshop, we came upon two paper-bound copies of a little book of poems by Alice Meynell. They had been there for at least two years. We had seen them before, a year or more ago, but had not looked into them fearing to be tempted. This time we ventured. We came upon two poems "To O, Of Her Dark Eyes," and "A Wind of Clear Weather in England."
Then the dear old lady who said she was a free thinker and wasn't ashamed of it; guessed she knew as much as the minister 'bout this world or the next; liked nothing better than to set down Sunday afternoons after she'd fed her hens and read Ingersoll. "What books of his have you?" I asked. She handed me a small paper-bound volume which did not look like any of "Bob's" productions.
What would I not give for that dear little paper-bound quarto, in large and most legible type, on certain pages of which the tender hand that was the shield of my infancy had crossed out with deep black marks something awful, probably about BEARS, such as once tare two-and-forty of us little folks for making faces, and the very name of which made us hide our heads under the bedclothes.
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