The _Literary Digest_ is falling into line admirably. Recently it printed a translation from some French source from which I clip the following: A Parisian literary man has been complaining that authors are not represented at international expositions in the same sense as are painters and sculptors. The complaint has provoked sarcastic comment from M. Maurice Goncourt, who, in _Charivari_ (Paris), suggests that, since an exhibition of their works would not be sufficiently striking, the authors themselves should be put on show in cages! “All the writers who are at present the incontestable masters of romance and journalism will transport, during the period of the Exposition, their working rooms to a section specially provided for them. “The public will see them there as they really are at home, surrounded with their furniture, their books, all their accessories, and in working costume. “From such an hour to such an hour—as at home—they will work on their articles, poems, or novels. “That would draw a crowd; that would be truly interesting! “They could be looked at through a sheet of glass or a lattice—silently, so as not to interfere with their inspiration. “The administration could even put up signs like this: PLEASE THROW NOTHING TO THE POETS, or—more particularly for the pretty visitors: DON’T EXCITE THE PSYCHOLOGISTS. All this sounds much as though it had been written by the keeper of _The Literary Shop_, but I don’t believe it was. Supposing, however, such an exhibit were held at Atlanta with the Fair now in progress. Imagine Mr. Gilder and James Knapp Reeve, Mr. Le Gallienne and Laura Jean Libbey, Count Tolstoi and Mrs. Mary Jane Holmes, each in his or her own coop like a Leghorn chicken! Imagine Colonel S. S. McClure (Limited) with his Menagerie of Trained Thoroughbreds, each one of them exhibiting by his emaciation the horrible results of syndicate writing! Imagine Cy Warman pawing madly at the bars of his cage trying to tell Sweet Marie about the secret in his heart! Then imagine Little Tin God of Philadelphia, cuddled up in his basket, writing his masterpiece, _How to Feed a Sick Kitten!_ To them then would enter Major John Boyd Thacher, the pride and joy of the Albany Democracy, and judge equally both the just and the unjust. It’s a great idea. * * * * * One of my correspondents tells me that “the editor of the _Lark_ uses execrable perfume on his note paper.” This item is for the future reference of Mr. Burgess when he writes about his literary passions. * * * * *