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XI.
THE READER.
"I NEVER read such an impious book," said the reader, throwing it on the floor.
"You need not hurt me," said the book; "you will only get less for me second hand, and I did not write myself."
"That is true," said the reader. "My quarrel is with your author."
"Ah, well," said the book, "you need not buy his rant."
"That is true," said the reader. "But I thought him such a cheerful writer."
"I find him so," said the book.
"You must be differently made from me," said the reader.
"Let me tell you a fable," said the book. "There were two men wrecked upon a desert
