he observed, "and it reminds me of a story about Whistler--not a very
appropriate or poetical one, perhaps. But here it is, anyhow. Whistler
one summer day took a walk through the Downs with three or four young
men. They stopped at an ale-house and called for beer. Tankards were
set before them and they drank. Then Whistler said to the host:

"'My man, would you like to sell a great deal more beer than you do?'

"'Aye, sir, I would that!'

"'Then don't sell so much froth!'"

* * * * *

When a French magazine located his birthplace in Baltimore, and the
error traveled far, Whistler took no pains to correct it. "My dear
cousin Kate," he said to Mrs. Livermore, "if any one likes to think I
was born in Baltimore, why should I deny it? It is of no consequence
to me."

* * * * *

A chance American introduced himself by saying: "You know, Mr.
Whistler, we were born at Lowell, and at very much the same time. You
are sixty-seven and I am sixty-eight."

"Very charming," he replied. "And so you are sixty-eight and were born
at Lowell. Most interesting, no doubt, and as you please! But I shall
be born when and where I want, and I do not choose to be born in
Lowell and I refuse to be sixty-seven!"