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Updated: May 16, 2025
"I got to go shopping and straight home, Mr. Shapiro. Just think, two weeks from yesterday we sail, and we got enough sewing and packing to be done at our house to keep a whole regiment busy." He withdrew her from the tangle of pedestrians and into the entrance of a corner candy-shop. "Aw, now, what's your hurry?" he insisted, regarding her with smiling, invitational eyes.
It was illustrated in the forgeries of the marvelous boy Chatterton. The talent he expended in deception might have made him an enviable reputation, the deception vitiated whatever good there was in his work. Fraud in literature is no better than fraud in archaeology, Chatterton deserves no more credit than Shapiro who forged the Moabite pottery with its inscriptions.
Isadore Binswanger rose from his couch, pressing his friend's hand and passing him round the little circle. "Pa, meet Irving Shapiro, city man for the Empire Waist Company. Irv, meet my father and mother and my sister." A round of handshaking. "We're as excited as a barnyard round here, Irv; the governor and the family just decided to light out for Europe for two months." "Europe!"
On the field of poetry, there is, first of all, Constantin Shapiro, the virile lyricist, who knew how to put into fitting words the indignation and revolt of the people against the injustice levelled against them. His "Poems of Jeshurun" published in He-Asif for 1888, alive with emotion and patriotic ardor, as well as his Haggadic legends, must be put in the first rank.
At my request Rivesman, followed by myself, sought her out on the front porch and introduced me to her as "a great admirer of your father's poetry." Seated beside her was a bald-headed man with a lone wisp of hair directly over his forehead whom the hotel-keeper introduced as "Mr. Shapiro, a counselor," and who by his manner of greeting me showed that he was fully aware of my financial standing
Over a luncheon that lay cold and unrelished between them Irving Shapiro leaned to Miriam Binswanger, his voice competing with the five-piece orchestra and noonday blather of the Oriental Café. "I just can't get it in my head, somehow, Miriam, that to-morrow this time you'll be out on the sea." "Me neither." "I just never had two weeks fly like these since we got acquainted." "Me me neither."
Irving Shapiro, his soft campus hat pressed against his striped waistcoat in a slight bow, and a row of even teeth flashed beneath a neat hedge of mustache. "Mr. Izzy Binswanger live here?" "Hello, Irv! That you? Come in!" She dropped a courtesy. "That sounds like he lives here, don't it? That's him calling."
"His Majesty, Jonkvank, King of Krink!" the former herald of King Firkked's court, now herald to King Carlos von Schlichten, shouted, banging on a brass shield with the flat of his sword, as Jonkvank descended from his launch, attended by a group of his nobles and his Spear of State, with Hideyoshi O'Leary and Francis X. Shapiro shepherding them.
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