wanted was a comic almanac--a book filled with miserable
pictures--pictures of men and beasts twisted into all sorts of odd
shapes--and vulgar jokes, and scraps of low wit.

"Will you let me look at it?" I asked the little boy as the clerk
handed the book to him.

"Yes, sir," said he.

I took the almanac, and turned over some of its leaves. There was not
a particle of information in the book, except what related to the sun,
and moon, and stars, and that formed but a small portion of the
volume. "My son," said I, pleasantly, "what do you buy this book
for?"

"To make me laugh," said he.

"But is _that_ all you read books for--to find something to laugh at?"
I inquired.

"No, sir," he replied, "but then this book is _so_ funny. Giles Manly
has got one, and"--he hesitated.

"He has a great time over it," I interrupted, to which the little boy
nodded, as much as to say,

"Yes, sir, that's it."

"Did your father send you after this book?" I asked.