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Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 1809-1894

"The Poet at the Breakfast-Table"

That Boy
immediately copied it, and added greatly to its effect by extending the
fingers of the other hand in a line with those of the first, and
vigorously agitating those of the two hands,--a gesture which acts like
a puncture on the distended self-esteem of one to whom it is addressed,
and cheapens the memory of the absent to a very low figure.
I wish the reader to observe that I treasure up with interest all the
words uttered by the Salesman. It must have been noticed that he very
rarely speaks. Perhaps he has an inner life, with its own deep
emotional, and lofty contemplative elements, but as we see him, he is the
boarder reduced to the simplest expression of that term. Yet, like most
human creatures, he has generic and specific characters not unworthy of
being studied. I notice particularly a certain electrical briskness of
movement, such as one may see in a squirrel, which clearly belongs to his
calling. The dry-goodsman's life behind his counter is a succession of
sudden, snappy perceptions and brief series of coordinate spasms; as
thus:
"Purple calico, three quarters wide, six yards."
Up goes the arm; bang! tumbles out the flat roll and turns half a dozen
somersets, as if for the fun of the thing; the six yards of calico hurry
over the measuring nails, hunching their backs up, like six cankerworms;
out jump the scissors; snip, clip, rip; the stuff is wisped up,
brown--papered, tied, labelled, delivered, and the man is himself again,
like a child just come out of a convulsion-fit.


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