One hears
every day in metropolitan society such remarks as, "Have
you read, 'Soo le foo?'" "Oh, you mean that book by
Haingri Barbooze? No, I have not read it yet, but I have
read 'Mong Swassant Quinz' you know, by that other man."
This is hopeful indeed. Nor need we wonder that our best
magazines are reflecting the same tendency.
Here for instance are the opening sentences of a very
typical serial now running in one of our best periodicals:
for all I know the rest of the sentences may be like
them. At any rate, any magazine reader will recognize
them at once:
BONNE MERE PITOU
A Conte of Old Normandy
Bonne Mere Pitou sat spinning beside the porte of the
humble chaumiere in which she dwelt. From time to time
her eyes looked up and down the gran' route that passed
her door.
"Il ne vient pas," she murmured (he does not come).
She rose wearily and went dedans. Presently she came out
again, dehors. "Il ne vient toujours pas," she sighed
(he still does not come).
About her in the tall trees of the allee the percherons
twittered while the soft roucoulement of the bees murmured
drowsily in the tall calice of the chou-fleur.
"Il n'est pas venu," she said (perfect tense, third
singular, he is not, or has not, come).
Pages:
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159