so frequently; but, liking him, I go again and again. So with
Dickens, Mark Twain, and Shakespeare. The story goes that a second
Uncle Remus was sitting on a stump in the depths of a forest sawing
away on an old discordant violin. A man, who chanced to come upon
him, asked what he was doing. With no interruption of his musical
activities, he answered: "Boss, I'se serenadin' m' soul." Book or
violin, 'tis all the same. Uncle Remus and I are serenading our
souls and the exercise is good for us.

I was laid by with typhoid fever for a few weeks once, and the doctor
came at eleven o'clock in the morning and at five o'clock in the
afternoon. If he happened to be a bit late I grew impatient, and my
fever increased. He discovered this fact, and was no more tardy. He
was reading "John Fiske" at the time, and Grant's "Memoirs," and at
each visit reviewed for me what he had read since the previous visit.
He must have been glad when I no longer needed to take my history by
proxy, for I kept him up to the mark, and bullied him into reciting
twice a day. I don't know what drugs he gave me, but I do know that
"Fiske" and "Grant" are good for typhoid, and heartily commend them
to the general public. I am rather glad now that I had typhoid fever.

I listen with amused tolerance to people who grow voluble on the
weather and their symptoms, and often wish they would ask me to
prescribe for them. I'd probably tell them to become readers of
William J. Locke. But, perhaps, their symptoms might seem preferable
to the remedy. A neighbor came in to borrow a book, and I gave her
"Les Miserables," which she returned in a day or so, saying that she
could not read it. I knew that I had overestimated her, and that I
didn't have a book around of her size. I had loaned my "Robin Hood,"
"Rudder Grange," "Uncle Remus," and "Sonny" to the children round