Chapter III: Part 3

"Oh, she was his great-aunt. I've got her traced all clear enough. Her mother was a Jimson. They lived in the old Jimson homestead in Worcester. Her father was Zachariah Jimson, and he was my ancestor; he was the third cousin of the Earl of Dingleberry. I got into the 'Grand Dames of the Pequot War,' and the 'United Order of American Descendants of Third Cousins of Earls'--both of them, through Zachariah. But that doesn't explain how Molly Bixby, whose mother came over in the Sarah Jane from Bristol, and who settled at Cohasset in 1690, turned up in Philadelphia in 1775 married to an officer in the English army. Then I am nearly distracted about Jabez Whicher. He was an intimate friend of Sir Harry Vane, and I don't see how I can ever get into the 'Descendants of Persons Who Were Acquainted With People Worth While' unless I can find out something about him."

"Are you sure there was such a man?"

"Of course I am. My mother was a Whicher. I have been all through the town history of Tinkleham, where he came from. We have two samplers at home, worked by his great-granddaughter. And I have hunted in the genealogies of the Diddleback family--he married a Diddleback, my grandfather always said, and in the genealogies of the Fritterleys and the Nynkums, because they were the most prominent families of Tinkleham."

"What have you got there?"

"This? Oh, this is the town and court records of Footleboro'--it is only three miles from Tinkleham, you know, and I thought I might find out something about him. Let me see, let me see--gracious, what fine print! There, here are the Whichers, lots of them. Andrew, Benjamin, Charles--why, here he is! Victory at last! 'Whicher, Jabez.' That's the man! Now, page 719. Here we are! What's this--'Site of the Old Pump'? Why, what's the matter with this index? It says page 719 clear enough. And, look here, isn't this page 719?"

"Why, yes, it seems to be. I don't understand. Oh, this is it--that means paragraph 719. Look under that. There you are. What? 'June 2d, 1659, Jabez Whicher was accused before the justices of stealing sundry fowl and swine from several of the townsfolk, and he did plead that he was guilty, and was fined twelve pence, and sentenced to confinement in the jail for one year, and to be branded with the letter T on his right cheek.' Dear me, is that your ancestor?"

"Why no, certainly not; how ridiculous! Another person of the same name, of course."

"But it is a very unusual name."

"Not at all, Whicher is a common name--I mean, that is--I mean--oh, of course this is some one else."

I cannot chronicle their conversation any further. Enough has been given to show you the nature of the annoyances to which I was subjected yesterday. I look to you, gentlemen, for relief.

Yours very truly,

OBADIAH WURZBERGER.

To the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library.

Gentlemen: I regret to hear from my colleague, Dr. O. Wurzberger, that you have denied his application for relief in the matter of conversation within the library alcoves. Dr. Wurzberger has been unable to work for over a week on account of the disturbing chatter that goes on in the alcove next to his, and yet you reply that conversation has always been allowed there, and that you do not see your way to forbidding it.

In order to show you that he is not alone in finding this conversation disturbing, I wish to state that I have been intolerably annoyed. I have been trying to work in the alcove on the other side of the one where the talking occurs. The first volume of my Arabic dictionary (on which I have been engaged continuously since 1867) is soon to appear, and I had hoped to devote a few weeks to a final revision. But how much I was able to accomplish to-day, for instance, you may see from this clack and chatter which took place within eight feet of me.

The first to begin, at half-past nine o'clock, were two youths. This is a literal account of what they said:

"When is the exam?"

"September 22d."

"What in thunder are you beginning to grind now for?"

"Why, we are going to start for Squid Cove day after to-morrow, and we always stay till after Labor Day. Of course I shan't do any grinding down there; and then when we get back Pete Brown and I are going to take the car and go up to Lake George for the rest of the month--or till the exam, anyhow."

"So you've only got to-day and to-morrow?"

"That's all."

"Gee! What does the course cover?"

"English literature from Beowulf to the death of Swinburne."

"Know anything about it?"

"Not a damned thing."

"Know who Beowulf was?"

"No,--I thought you were going to put me on to that."

"Well, you know who Swinburne was, don't you?"

"Sure thing; he wrote 'The Blessed Damozel.'"

"Snappy work, old man. You came pretty near it, anyhow. Only, don't put that in the exam. You won't get asked many questions about modern writers, so don't worry over them. Perhaps you'll get one on Tennyson. Don't say he lived in the Craigie House on Brattle street, and wrote 'Evangeline,' will you? Now, we might as well open the book, and take a chance anywhere. Here's Milton. Ever hear of him?"

"John Milton, England's greatest epic poet, was the son of a scrivener. He was born in 1608 in Grub Street, London. He lived there till he was sixteen, so it is possible that his youthful eyes may have beheld Shakspeare, his only superior. He--"

"Well, well! Where did you get all this?"

"Wait a minute. Little did his worthy parents realize that their son was destined to write some of the most charming lyrics, the most powerful sonnets, and the greatest epic in the English language, and to lose his sight in--in--oh! I forget what he lost his sight in. But, say, how is that? Learned it this morning, while I was eating breakfast."

"Marvelous! But what was that about Grub Street? This book says Bread Street."

"Yes, that's right--Bread Street. Knew it was something about grub."

"Well, you better cut all that out about the street. You might get mixed again, and put it Pudding Lane. It doesn't make a hit, anyhow. They would rather have some drool about his influence on literature, or something of that sort. They'll probably ask you to contrast 'L'Allegro' with 'Il Penseroso,' or describe his attitude toward the Presbyterians, or--"

"That's all right--I'm there with the goods. 'L'Allegro' describes the care-free life of the happy man--the philosophy falsely attributed to the followers of Epicurus, which is summed up in the maxim, 'Eat, drink and be merry,' more completely described in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 'Il Penseroso,' on the other hand, is the thoughtful, sober student by no means to be confounded with the melancholy man, but, on the other hand--oh, I've got that down cold--I can go on that way for three pages."

"We'll let Milton alone, then. You seem to know everything to be known about him. How are you on Swift, Addison and that crowd? They always give you three or four questions about them."

"I've got to read over what that book says on that period. I am not very sure whether Swift or Defoe wrote the 'Tatler,' and those other things--they're all mixed up in my mind, anyway."

"How about Shakspeare?"

"Oh, yes. No one knows when he was born or died, what he did, or whether he wrote his plays or not."

"You'll get in trouble if you say that. I don't believe you will get any question about him. Here's Jane Austen."

"She was the woman that was married three or four times, and ought to have been two or three other times, wasn't she?"

"No; you've mixed her with someone else. You ought to be able to discuss her style, and compare it with Charlotte Bronte's. They're dippy about Jane out there, so be sure and read her up. And don't fail to express great admiration for Spenser, if you get a chance."

"Was he the fellow who said we were all descended from monkeys?"

"No, no. What are you talking about? He was a poet--time of Shakspeare, or about then. You ought to read some of him. Read some of 'The Shepherd's Calendar' and quote from it. You'll hate it, but it will work a great swipe with the examiner."

"Well, I'll have to go along now. Mighty good of you to put me on to these points."

"Don't mention it."

"Let's see--Swift, Jane Austen and Spenser are the ducks you say I ought to look up?"

"Yes; and Addison and Marlowe. And say, find out something about Wordsworth. They'll ask about his attitude toward the French Revolution, or some damfool thing like that."

"All right, I will. What was his attitude toward it?"

"I don't know. I had it all down fine once--when I took that exam. He liked it or else he didn't, I forget which. But say, you want to know a little about Dryden and Pope, too."

"Dryden and Pope. All right, I got 'em on my list. I'll be able to write three pages about both of 'em before I go to bed. So long!"

"So long!"

* * * * *

They parted; but the alcove was empty only three minutes. It was then occupied by a man and a woman. The woman began the conversation.

"Mrs. Brooks said I certainly ought to consult you, Mr. Wigglesworth. She said your knowledge of local history will be indispensable to us."

"Now, I wonder if I understand you correctly. You and the other ladies of your club wish to give a pageant, illustrating past events in the history of the town?"

"That's it, exactly. Now, we thought it would be so nice if we could have the visit of Lafayette to Blankville, for one thing. I am to be the Marquise de Lafayette, in a Louis Quinze gown and powdered hair."

"Ah, yes. And your husband, I presume, will represent the marquis?"

"Daniel? Oh dear, no. Mr. Jones would never take any interest in it. He is so busy, you know. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette."

"I see. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette. I suppose, of course, that you wish to carry out the pageant with due regard for historical accuracy, correctness of costume, and all that sort of thing?"

"Oh, yes. Certainly! That is what will make it so charming, and interesting, and picturesque, and er--er--educational. Dr. Peabody has picked out his costume already. He has spent hours over it. It is all white satin, high-heeled shoes, a jeweled sword, and a powdered wig. We thought we would represent the ball given to the marquis and marchioness by the leading citizens of the town. Then we could have a minuet, you know. Dr. Peabody dances so beautifully."

"Ah, yes. I see only one objection to this. From the point of view of historical truth, I mean. Lafayette did not visit Blankville on his first sojourn in this country."

"Oh, would that make any difference?"

"Well, it would, rather."

"I don't see why."

"Well, for one thing, when he did come here he was an old man. He was about old enough to be Dr. Peabody's grandfather, I should judge."

"Oh!"

"Furthermore, there was no ball given by the leading citizens, and no minuet."

"But there must have been something!"

"There was. The selectmen gathered at the post-house and presented an address of welcome."

"Well, why couldn't we have that?"

"Undoubtedly you could. But it occurred at about nine o'clock on a rainy night. Lafayette did not alight from his coach, for he was trying to get on to Fairfield that night. He was suffering from a headache, and not only had on a nightcap, but had his head swathed in flannel bandages as well. He merely put out his head for a moment from the coach window, took the address, thanked the selectmen and immediately retired from view. There is no doubt at all about this, for Abner Willcox, the first historian of Blankville, was one of the selectmen."

"I don't see how we could have that very well."

"It is possible that you could persuade Dr. Peabody to appear in a nightcap and flannel bandages, but from what I know of the young man I should think it extremely doubtful."

"Well, it would not be picturesque!"

"Possibly not; but it would be historically correct, which is even better."

"I do not think so. I do not believe that a pageant should follow the facts of history slavishly. The object is to reproduce in a beautiful manner the events of the past."

"Exactly so, Mrs. Jones. I have no objection to the beauty of the spectacle, but if the Historical Association, whose president and representative I am, are to contribute toward the pageant, I must insist upon some regard for historical truth."

"Well, what could we have? Are there not some events that would be suitable? Did not General Washington and Mrs. Washington visit our town?"

"They did not. They seem to have overlooked it."

"Was there never an Indian raid?"

"Yes; there was. In 1641."

"How would that do?"

"I will leave you to judge. The Indians--there were three of them--were all intoxicated. They endeavored to steal a horse, but were discovered by a servant girl of one Enoch Winslow, who owned the horse. She locked them up in the barn until the constable could come and take them to the village jail."

"It does not sound very dramatic."

"I am no judge of what is or is not dramatic, Mrs. Jones. I merely give you the facts. Possibly you might like to represent the landing of the first settlers."

"Yes; that sounds delightful."

"It was not a delightful occasion for the settlers. It is a matter of record that on landing they were instantly attacked by mosquitoes in such large numbers that they had to beat a hasty retreat to their ship."

"Perhaps we could have that and leave out the mosquitoes,--it would be hard to have them, anyway."

"That would be impossible, madam. The modern school of history, of which I am a follower, allows the omission of no detail which makes for accuracy. Perhaps you would not be able to introduce the mosquitoes, though it might be managed. If not, I should insist that the persons representing the settlers beat their arms and hands about, and retreat to the vessel in evident distress."

"It does seem hard to find anything. I must go now. I hope you will think it over, Mr. Wigglesworth. Good morning."

* * * * *

These, gentlemen of the board, were the annoyances I suffered to-day. Can you do nothing to remedy this state of things?

Respectfully yours,

NICHOLAS JASPER, Ph.D.

THE LITERARY ZOO

THE LITERARY ZOO

"The idea is not exactly original," I complained.

"Perhaps not," Mr. Gooch replied, "at least, perhaps it isn't wholly original in a general sense. Still, disregarding what private collectors may have done, I am sure this is the first public library to establish a literary-zoölogical annex on so extensive a scale. We aim at nothing less than completeness."

"Oh! that is what you call it--a literary-zoölogical annex? I thought I had heard it called a literary zoo."

"We think the other name a little more dignified. That is what it will be termed on the invitations. Let me see; I believe I sent you an advance invitation? They are not to be issued till next Monday."

He had sent me one, and I took it from my pocket and read it over again.

"The Public Library of East Caraway," it said, "requests the honor of your presence at the opening of its Literary-Zoölogical Annex, Thursday, September 1st, at ten o'clock A.M."

"We have to set that hour," Mr. Gooch explained, "because the animals are so much brighter then. In the afternoon they get sleepy, and at four o'clock, which is feeding time, they are noisy and quarrelsome. But come, we will go and inspect them."

He rose and led the way out of his office. We went through the delivery room, where a dozen or twenty people were waiting for books, and out through the stacks to the door of the big wooden annex. Mr. Gooch drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and unfastened the padlock.

"Of course you understand," said he, as he pushed back the heavy doors, "there are still very many empty cages. Our collection is about one-fifth what we hope to have in two years. It is slow work, and most of the specimens are obtained only after long research and difficult negotiation. Some owners of the most desirable animals hold them at prices absolutely prohibitive to a library like ours. I could tell you of haggling and bargaining that we have done! Well, you would never believe, for instance, what the owner of the horse who brought the news from Ghent to Aix wants for him, and as for Circe's swine--there are only two of them extant now--they might be made of pure gold, those pigs! But we have enough animals to make a respectable showing on opening day, I think, and I believe the collection will be decidedly educational in its effects."

Mr. Gooch has a firmer trust in the educational value of many things than I have been able to share, but I looked forward with great interest to this first view of his animals.

"This section is devoted to birds," said Mr. Gooch; "that swan floating around on the pool is the one who was once an ugly duckling; the cockatoo on the perch belonged to Count Fosco; and the red bird is, of course, the Kentucky Cardinal.

"One moment," I interposed, "how do you classify your animals? Not by authors, I take it?"

Mr. Gooch looked a little embarrassed. "Well, no," he admitted; "it was a very painful thing, for as a librarian I naturally wished to do everything according to library methods. But it was absolutely impossible. We tried it, and we had some harrowing experiences."

Mr. Gooch wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

"The Kipling section was a perfect pandemonium in no time," he went on, "there was a terrific battle between the tiger and one of the elephants. I thought the whole place would be torn to pieces. We got them separated somehow, and we saw then that it would be utterly impossible to classify by authors. In some cases it might be done, but we had to stick to one system or another, so we adopted the usual methods of the zoölogical museums--the birds by themselves, the carnivora together, and so on. It is hardly scholarly, I know, but we had to do it."

I could not deny that he had acted for the best. By way of changing the subject I asked him about a small bird of inconspicuous appearance.

"It is the nightingale that inspired John Keats," he replied, "he sings sometimes, on moonlit nights. I can tell you, however, that the Ode is better than his song. The raven, sitting there on the pallid bust of Pallas, you will recognize without any difficulty. This other raven--"

"Belonged to Barnaby Rudge, I suppose?"

"No, _he_ is owned by a private collector. This one flew and croaked ahead of Queen Guinevere, when she fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, and heard the spirits of the waste and weald moan as she fled. Our ravens are not very cheerful birds. The other large, black bird is Solomon Caw, who lived in Kensington Gardens. There at the edge of the pool stands the Caliph Stork."

"And this hen?" I asked.

"That is Em'ly, who was once the object of attention from a Virginian. The other is the Little Red Hin."

"You will be able to make an addition to your poultry soon," I remarked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, one Chantecler."

"Will we? I don't know. We don't go in for every animal that becomes notorious through advertising. Do you recognize the canary?"

"Little Nell's?"

"No, this one hung in the cabin of the brig Flying Scud. Here are the dogs--well penned, you see--I didn't intend that outrageous pun--because some of them are dangerous. This is Wolf, who once belonged to Rip Van Winkle. Many persons have the impression that his name is Snider. The bloodhound is one of those which pursued Eliza across the ice. There are many impostors, but our specimen is undoubtedly genuine."

"And the stuffed bloodhound?" I inquired.

"He was shot with a bottle of Daffy's Elixir by Micah Clarke. The other stuffed dog, that gigantic black one, is--"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles, of course!" I interrupted.

"Certainly; there are the marks of Sherlock Holmes's bullets. This fox terrier, who is so lively and amiable, is Montmorency, who once went on a trip with Three Men in a Boat. This stuffed pug, who looks flattened and damaged, is Willoughby, who was killed by having a Fallen Idol tumble on him. The enormous St. Bernard is Porthos, who belonged to Peter Ibbetson, and that collie once had the extreme honor of being chased about in the snow and caught by Mr. Van Bibber."

We walked on, down the long passage, with cages on either side. On shelves, here and there, were animals, dead and stuffed. It had been impossible to procure them alive. Mr. Gooch pointed out a fox, who plainly had been cut in two. The stitches where the taxidermist sewed him together were easy to see. It was the fox, so the librarian told me, killed in Spain by the Brigadier Gerard.

"Here are the cats," announced Mr. Gooch, "and their characters vary. The Persian kitten, who is chasing her tail, has been celebrated in Rubaiyat. That large Tom is not named Tom, but Peter. He once had some painkiller administered to him by Tom Sawyer. The disagreeable looking creature belonged to Mr. Wilde, the repairer of reputations in 'The King in Yellow.' Perhaps you recognize the other?"

"It must be The Black Cat!" I exclaimed.

"It is, indeed," said Mr. Gooch. "Before we look at the horses, I want you to come into this little room. The collection here is unique--it cannot be approached by any other in the world. This large cage is intended for the Jabberwock--when we obtain him. In the meanwhile here are some Mome Raths--a sort of green pig who has lost his way, you know; two Borogoves and a Slithy Tove."

I gazed with feelings of deep emotion on the Slithy Tove--"something like a badger, something like a lizard, and something like a corkscrew." The two Borogoves, who were both very mimsy indeed, did not belie their reputation for looking like live mops.

"This room is admirable! Have you any other animals in it?"

"Yes," Mr. Gooch replied, "here is the Pobble Who Has No Toes."

"The genuine Pobble?"

"Absolutely genuine. The veritable Pobble who went to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's runcible cat with crimson whiskers. Over there you can see the Griffin who once carried a Minor Canon on his back. And beside him--"

I saw a large and sulky-looking bird, seated in a chair, in a state of deep dejection and invalidism. His head was tied up, as if he were very ill.

"Surely that is The Cockalorum."

Mr. Gooch nodded.

"Follow me, please. This room--" he opened a door that led into what seemed to be a vast and absolutely empty apartment--"this room contains a Snark, and the Invisible Dog who figured in the Stories of Three Burglars. Beyond are some of the animals who once lived on a certain island with one Dr. Moreau. Would you like to see them?"

I shuddered and declined.

"Very well, then. We will return to the main building."

We did so, and the librarian paused beside a small case. "Here is The Gold Bug. This caterpillar is the one that Sergeant Troy removed on the tip of his sword from the dress of Bathsheba Everdene. And the bees were of the swarm that traveled about with the Bee Man of Orn."

The two cages beyond both contained large apes.

"Our orang-outangs," remarked Mr. Gooch, "have decidedly bad reputations. The one on the right committed the murders in the Rue Morgue. The other is called Bimi--he belonged to a Frenchman named Bertran. The next cage has a miscellaneous assortment of Bander Log. Oh! here are some horses and cattle. The pony once belonged to Tom Bailey. This donkey was one of those which used to annoy Miss Betsy Trotwood. Priscilla Alden, on her wedding-day, rode on this white bull. The stuffed donkey is the one whose dead body lay once in the pathway of a traveler on a Sentimental Journey. And the other donkey was the foster-mother of the Luck of Roaring Camp."

I pointed to some enormous and repulsive-looking crabs that were crawling about on the sand at the edge of a tank, and asked what they were. The librarian told me that they were from the subterranean river over which Allan Quatermain and his friends traveled.

"But they," said Mr. Gooch, "are nothing to the fellow in the next tank."

I looked where he indicated and saw the most hideous monster it has ever been my bad luck to come across. It was a tremendous crab--the creature of a nightmare.

"It is one of those found on the shores of the Future by the traveler who voyaged on the Time Machine."

"I think I have had enough of your aquariums," I said.

"Just look at this. Here is the Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, whose name was Daniel Webster. He has recovered from his meal of birdshot, and can jump surprisingly. Oh! and over there is the Crocodile who swallowed an alarm clock."

Mr. Gooch stopped before a row of elephants who were swaying about, eating hay, and requesting peanuts. I was shown Moti Guj, the mutineer, and the elephant on whose back Private Mulvaney once went for a ride. There was also Zenobia, who fell in love with a country doctor, and Her Ladyship's Elephant.

There were a number of tigers, including, of course, the ill-natured Shere Khan.

"The one in the second cage," said my guide, "is one of those hunted by Mr. Isaacs, when he was after a tiger-skin to present to Miss Westonhaugh."

But perhaps the most interesting of all was one which, so Mr. Gooch told me, had been confined in a cage beside a lady's apartment, to await the opening of a door by a young man. But Mr. Gooch was unable to tell me whether the man opened the door of the Lady or the Tiger.

Among the lions I saw the beast which fought with a crocodile in the presence of Leo Vincey and Horace Holly. A black panther was recognizable as Bagheera, and another, of the normal color, was the same animal who conceived a passion for a French soldier in the desert.

"Here are some smaller animals," said Mr. Gooch; "do you know this fellow with the sharp nose?"

"It is a mongoose, is it not?"

"Yes; Rikki-tikki-tavi, himself. And these white mice belonged to Count Fosco, like the cockatoo. This mouse, alone by herself, was the pet of Barty Josselin."

We moved on, but I began to look at my watch, for I had a train to catch.

"The snakes are an especially fine part of the collection," Mr. Gooch remarked; "do you see this swamp adder? It is the Speckled Band, that gave Sherlock Holmes an uncomfortable five minutes. That little coral snake in the pickle bottle was responsible for the death of one Reingelder. The two rattlesnakes were intimates of Elsie Venner, and in that cage you may see Kaa, the great rock python. But here is a greater prize than any."

He indicated an extraordinary and beautiful serpent, at which I looked with the greatest surprise and wonder.

"She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue,
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue;
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard,
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson barred;
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed,
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or inter-wreathed
Their lustres with the gloomier tapestries--
So rainbow-sided, touched with miseries,
She seemed, at once, some penanced lady elf,
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self.
Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar;
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet!
She had a woman's mouth with all its pearls complete."

"That," said the librarian, "I consider the gem of the collection."

"It is truly," I replied, "but I think it a profanation to have poor Lamia here."

"You don't consider--" began Mr. Gooch.

"Yes, I do. And I must hurry now, for it is nearly train time. I am deeply indebted to you for this sight of your animals, and I hope your opening day will be a great success. It is my advice to you not to let any nervous persons see those crabs, though."

"Just a minute. We have a rhinoceros here, who got cake-crumbs inside his skin. His name is Strorks, and--"

"Thank you very much; but I really must hurry. Good-by."

"Good-by."

And I went out and left him beside the rhinoceros.

THEIR JUST REWARD

THEIR JUST REWARD

I looked and beheld, and there were a vast number of girls standing in rows. Many of them wore pigtails, and most of them chewed gum.

"Who are they?" I asked my guide.

And he said: "They are the girls who wrote 'Lovely' or 'Perfectly sweet' or 'Horrid old thing!' on the fly-leaves of library books. Some of them used to put comments on the margins of the pages--such as 'Served him right!' or 'There! you mean old cat!'"

"What will happen to them?" I inquired.

"They are to stand up to the neck in a lake of ice cream soda for ten years," he answered.

"That will not be much of a punishment to them," I suggested.

But he told me that I had never tried it, and I could not dispute him.

"The ones over there," he remarked, pointing to a detachment of the girls who were chewing gum more vigorously than the others, "are sentenced for fifteen years in the ice cream soda lake, and moreover they will have hot molasses candy dropped on them at intervals. They are the ones who wrote:

If my name you wish to see
Look on page 93,

and then when you had turned to page 93, cursing yourself for a fool as you did it, you only found:

If my name you would discover
Look upon the inside cover,

and so on, and so on, until you were ready to drop from weariness and exasperation. Hang me!" he suddenly exploded, "if I had the say of it, I'd bury 'em alive in cocoanut taffy--I told the Boss so, myself."

I agreed with him that they were getting off easy.

"A lot of them are named 'Gerty,' too," he added, as though that made matters worse.

Then he showed me a great crowd of older people. They were mostly men, though there were one or two women here and there.

"These are the annotators," he said, "the people who work off their idiotic opinions on the margins and fly-leaves of books. They dispute the author's statements, call him a liar and abuse him generally. The one on the end used to get all the biographies of Shakespeare he could find and cover every bit of blank paper in them with pencil-writing signed 'A Baconian.' He usually began with the statement: 'The author of this book is a pig-headed fool.' The man next to him believed that the earth is flat, and he aired that theory so extensively with a fountain-pen that he ruined about two hundred dollars' worth of books. They caught him and put him in jail for six months, but he will have to take his medicine here just the same. There are two religious cranks standing just behind him. At least, they were cranks about religion. One of them was an atheist and he used to write blasphemy all over religious books. The other suffered from too much religion. He would jot down texts and pious mottoes in every book he got hold of. He would cross out, or scratch out all the oaths and cuss words in a book; draw a pencil line through any reference to wine, or strong drink, and call especial attention to any passage or phrase he thought improper by scrawling over it. He is tied to the atheist, you notice. The woman in the second row used to write 'How true!' after any passage or sentence that pleased her. She gets only six years. Most of the others will have to keep it up for eight."

"Keep what up?" I asked.

"Climbing barbed-wire fences," was the answer; "they don't have to hurry, but they must keep moving. They begin to-morrow at half-past seven."

We walked down the hill toward a group of infamous looking people. My guide stopped and pointed toward them.

"These are snippers, cutters, clippers, gougers and extra-illustrators. They vary all the way from men who cut 'want ads' out of the newspapers in the reading-rooms, to those who go into the alcoves and lift valuable plates by the wet-string method. You see they come from all classes of society--and there are men and women, girls and boys. You notice they are all a little round-shouldered, and they keep glancing suspiciously right and left. This is because they got into the habit of sinking down in their chairs to get behind a newspaper, and watching to see if anyone was looking. There is one man who was interested in heraldry. He extended his operations over five or six libraries, public and private. When they found him out and visited his room it looked like the College of Heralds. He had a couple of years in prison, but here he is now, just the same. The man next to him is--well, no need to mention names,--you recognize him. Famous millionaire and politician. Never went into a library but once in his life. Then he went to see an article in a London newspaper, decided he wanted to keep it, and tore out half the page. Library attendant saw him, called a policeman, and tried to have him arrested. You see, the attendant didn't know who he was."

"Did anything come of it?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the guide, "there did. The library attendant was discharged. Blank simply told the Board of Trustees that he had been insulted by a whippersnapper who didn't look as if he had ever had a square meal in his life. One or two of the board wanted to investigate, but the majority would have jumped through hoops if Blank had told them to. He is in this section for five years, but he has over eight hundred to work off in other departments. The men on the end of the line, five or six dozen of them, used to cut plates out of the art magazines--a common habit. Woman standing next, used to steal sermons. Man next but one to her was a minister. He was writing a book on the Holy Land, and he cut maps out of every atlas in a library. Said he didn't mean to keep them long."

This group interested me, and I wondered what was to be done with them.

"You will see in a minute," said the guide; "they are going to begin work right away."

As he spoke, a number of officials came down the hill with enormous sheets of sticky fly-paper. These were distributed among the "snippers, cutters, clippers, gougers and extra-illustrators," who thereupon set to work with penknives, cutting small bits out of the fly-paper. In a few minutes the wretched creatures were covered from head to foot with pieces of the horrible stuff; pulling it off one hand to have it stick on the other, getting it in their hair, on their eyebrows, and plastering themselves completely.

"That is not very painful," I observed.

"No," said my companion, "perhaps not. Gets somewhat monotonous after four years, though. Come over to the end of this valley. I want you to see a dinner party that is taking place."

We left the sticky fly-paper folks behind us, and proceeded through the valley. On the side of the hill I noticed a small body of people, mostly men.

The guide pointed over his shoulder at them, remarking: "Reformed Spellers."

They were busily engaged in clipping one another's ears off with large scissors. There was a sign on the hill beside them. It read:

EARS ARE UNNECESSARY. WHY NOT GET RID OF THEM? LEAVE ENUF TO HEAR WITH. DON'T STOP TIL YOU ARE THRU.

At the end of the valley there was a large level space. Something like a picnic was going on. People were eating at hundreds of little tables, and some were dancing, or strolling about on the grass. The guide stopped.

"The Boss is prouder of this than of anything else in the whole place," he said. "The people who are giving this party are the genealogists. Nearly all women, you notice. These are the folks who have driven librarians to profanity and gray hairs. Some of them wanted ancestors for public and social reasons; some of them for historical or financial purposes; some merely to gratify personal pride or private curiosity. But they all wanted ancestors for one reason or another, and ancestors they _would_ have. For years they charged into libraries demanding ancestors. Over there, you see that big crowd? They are the two hundred and fifty thousand lineal descendants of William Brewster. Next to them are six thousand rightful Lords Baltimore. That vast mob beginning at the big tree, and extending for six miles to the northeast are the John Smith and Pocahontas crowd--some descended from one and some from the other--we haven't got them sorted out yet."

"How many of them are there?" I demanded.

"According to our best estimates," he replied, "in the neighborhood of eight million at present; but of course we are receiving fresh additions all the time. Thirty-five hundred came in last month. There is no time to count them, however."

I laughed at this.

"Time!" I exclaimed, "why, you've got eternity!"

But he merely waved his hand and went on.

"They are the largest crowd here, anyway, with the possible exception of the Mayflower descendants. They have a whole valley to themselves, beyond the second hill. Some say there are twelve million of them, but no one knows. Recently they applied for another valley, for theirs is full. You see it is so thickly planted with family trees that they have to live in deep shade all the time, and it is very damp and chilly. Then there are upwards of three hundred thousand tons of grandfather's clocks, brass warming-pans, cradles, chairs and tables, so they hardly can find standing room."

We walked down amongst the people who were giving the picnic. I wanted to see what was the object of this lawn party, for it struck me that it looked more like the Elysian Fields than any other place.

I soon discovered my mistake. Near the first group of tables was a sign with the inscription: "Grand Dames of the Pequot War," and at one of the tables sat Mrs. Cornelia Crumpet. I remembered the hours I had spent hunting up two ancestors to enable Mrs. Crumpet to join the Grand Dames. I had found them at last, and so, apparently, had Mrs. Crumpet, for there could be no doubt that the pair of sorry-looking rascals whom she was entertaining at luncheon were the long-lost ancestors. One of them was the most completely soiled individual I have ever seen. He was eating something or other, and he did not waste time with forks or any other implements. The other had finished his meal, and was leaning negligently back in his chair. He was smoking a large pipe, and he had his feet on the table.

Mrs. Crumpet wore an expression that showed that her past desire to discover these ancestors was as a passing whim, compared with her present deep, overpowering anxiety to be rid of them. I felt sorry for the poor lady; but she was not alone in her misery. All about her were Grand Dames of the Pequot War, engaged in entertaining their ancestors. Some of the ancestors were more agreeable, some far more distasteful to their descendants than Mrs. Crumpet's pair. None of the Grand Dames seemed to be having what could be called a jolly time.

My guide at last led me through the maze of tables and out into the open.

"We have a good many Japanese visitors in this section," said he. "They come to get some points from the Americans on ancestor-worship."

"What do they say?" I asked him.

"They just giggle and go away," he replied.

Beyond the genealogists we found a large group of people, who, the guide said, were the persons who borrow books and never return them. The complainants, in their case, were mainly private individuals rather than public libraries.

"They are not particularly interesting," remarked the guide, "but their punishment will appeal to you."

As we passed them I shuddered to see that they were all engaged in filing catalogue cards in alphabetical order.

"How long do they have to keep that up?" was my question, and I was horrified to learn that the terms varied from twenty to thirty-five years.

"Why, that is the most damnable thing I ever heard," I said--"the sticky fly-paper folks were nothing to this!"

The guide shrugged his shoulders--"It's the rule," he said.

The next lot of people we came on were curiously engaged. Long lines of bookshelves were set up about them, and they wandered up and down, forever taking a book from the shelf, only to sigh and put it back again. As we came amongst them I could see the cause of their weariness. The shelves seemed to be lined with the most brilliant looking books in handsome bindings. They were lettered in gold: "Complete Works of Charles Dickens," "Works of Dumas, Edition de Luxe," "Works of Scott," and so on. Yet when I took one of the books in my hand to look at it, it was no book at all, but just a wooden dummy, painted on the back, but absolutely blank everywhere else. They were like the things used by furniture dealers to put in a bookcase to make it look as if it were full of books, or those used on the stage, when a library setting is required. There were many cords of wood, but there was not a real book in any of the cases.

I asked one of the sufferers why he was doing this, and he stopped for a moment his patrol, and turned his weary eyes upon me.

"We are all alike," he said, indicating his associates. "We are the literary bluffers. Most of us were rich--I was, myself," and he groaned heavily. "We bought books by the yard--expensive ones, always--editions de luxe, limited editions--limited to ten thousand sets and each set numbered, of which this is No. 94," he added in a dull, mechanical fashion, as though he were repeating a lesson. "We were easy marks for all the dealers and agents. Especially illustrated editions, with extra copies of the engravings in a portfolio; bindings in white kid, or any other tomfool nonsense was what we were always looking for. And they saw that we got them. Whispered information that this set of Paul de Kock or Balzac was complete and unexpurgated, and that if we would buy it for $125, the publishers would throw in an extra volume, privately printed, and given away to purchasers, since it was against the law to sell it--this was the sort of bait we always bit at--cheerily! And now here we are!"

And he began again his tramp up and down, taking down the wooden dummies and putting them back again, with dolorous groans.

I could not stand this dismal spectacle very long, so we hurried on to a crowd of men bent nearly double over desks. They were pale and emaciated, which my guide told me was due to the fact that they had nothing to eat but paper.

"They are bibliomaniacs," he exclaimed, "collectors of unopened copies, seekers after misprints, measurers by the millimetre of the height of books. They are kept busy here reading the Seaside novels in paper covers. Next to them are the bibliographers--compilers of lists and counters of fly leaves. They cared more for a list of books than for books themselves, and they searched out unimportant errors in books and rejoiced mightily when they found one. Exactitude was their god, so here we let them split hairs with a razor and dissect the legs of fleas."

In a large troop of school children--a few hundred yards beyond, I came across a boy about fifteen years old. I seemed to know him. When he came nearer he proved to have two books tied around his neck. The sickly, yellowish-brown covers of them were disgustingly familiar to me--somebody's geometry and somebody else's algebra. The boy was blubbering when he got up to me, and the sight of him with those noxious books around his neck made me sob aloud. I was still crying when I awoke.

THE CROWDED HOUR

THE CROWDED HOUR

(Scene: The Circulating Department of the----Public Library. Time: Four o'clock of a Saturday afternoon in the winter. Miss Randlett and Miss Vanderpyl, library assistants, are taking in books returned, and issuing others to a group of persons, varying in number from ten to fifty. The group includes men and women, youths and maidens,--a number of high-school students being conspicuous. Edgar, Alfred, and Dan--library pages--going forward and back from the desk to the book-stack, fetching books called for. Sometimes they bring only the call-slips with the word "OUT" stamped thereon. A sign on the desk bears the inscription: "Please look up the call numbers of any books that you wish in the card catalogue. Write the numbers on a call-slip, and present the slip at this desk." About fifty per cent of the people pay no attention whatever to the sign.)

A small man in a large ulster, addressing Miss Vanderpyl, in honeyed tones: "Oh, pardon me! Have you 'The Blandishments of Belinda' in this library?"

Miss V. (working with both hands at once, charging books, and trying to keep thirty-seven people from becoming impatient): "Er--I--am not sure. Who is the author?"

The small man (bowing gracefully, with the tips of his fingers on his heart): "I, who now address you, Madam."

Miss V. (after wondering vainly what light this answer throws on her difficulty, and seeking for a reply which shall not seem impertinent): "I really am not sure,--probably we have it. Would you mind looking it up in the catalogue, please?"

The small man: "I beg pardon?"

Miss V. (indicating): "In the catalogue,--over there."

The small man: "Oh, those _horrid_ cards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in their _dreadful_ meshes! I fear I might never survive it, you know. Is there no other way? Ah, red tape! red tape!"

(He hovers about for an instant, and then flits away.)

A very large woman, with an armful of bundles (depositing six books on the desk with a crash, and heaving a sigh that scatters the call-slips and memoranda right and left): "_There!_ If my arms ain't nearly fallin' off! Say, you oughta give shawlstraps to carry these books with. Now, here's 'The Life Beautiful,'--I wanta return that, and 'The Romance of Two Worlds' an' 'Cometh up as a Flower,'--why, no, it ain't either,--it's 'Family Hymns'--if I ain't gone and picked that up off the settin'-room table and lugged it all this way, an' I _told_ Hattie to keep her hands off them books,--well, I'll put it back in my bag--here, young man! you leave that alone--that don't belong to the liberry. Now, here's this, an' this, an' I want this swapped onto this card, an' this one I want renood an' I wanta get 'Airy, Fairy Lilian' an'--oh, Lord! there goes my macaroni onto the floor,--all smashed to smithereens, I s'pose--no, 't ain't, either,--thank you, young man! Now, if you'll just--"

A high school student: "Can I get a copy of 'The Merchant of Venice,' the Rolfe edition?"

The very large woman: "Now, just you wait a minute, young feller! One at a time, here!"

Miss V. (at last making herself heard): "These books which you want to return should go over to _that_ desk."

The very large woman: "What? Oh, Lord, I forgot! That's so, ain't it? Well, I'll take 'em over, but say, jus' let me leave my bundles here a minute--I'll be right back."

(She departs, leaving a package of macaroni, two dozen eggs, and a black string bag to help cover the already crowded desk.)

An old gentleman (holding a call-slip in both hands, and looking at Miss V. over his eye-glasses): "This says that President Lowell's book on the government of England is 'out.' Do you mean to say that you own only _one_ copy of such an important work?"

Edgar: "No, sir, we got two, but they're all out."

The old gentleman: "Well, two, then! Why, I daresay you have half a dozen of some trashy novel or other. Why, do you know that the author is President of Harvard University?"

Edgar (quite cheerfully): "No, sir."

The old gentleman: "Well, he is! Your librarian ought to be told of this. Where is he? I shall enter a complaint."

A woman with poppies on her hat: "How do you do, Miss Vanderpyl? You're looking so well! You've _quite_ recovered from that dreadful illness you had last fall? I'm so glad! Now, I've brought you something."

(She extends an envelope, which Miss V., who has a book in one hand, and a combination pencil and dating-stamp in the other, takes between the last two fingers of her right hand.)

The woman with poppies: "Those are two tickets for the reception that is going to be given this evening by the Grand Dames of the Pequot War. It's _very_ exclusive, and the tickets are awfully hard to get. I felt sure you'd like to go and take a friend. They are not giving the tickets away to everyone, I can assure you. Oh, isn't that 'The Long Roll' over there on that desk? I do so want to read that, and they say there isn't a single copy in, except that one. You'll just let me take it, won't you?"

Miss V.: "Why, I'm awfully sorry! That copy is reserved for someone,--she paid for the post-card notice, you know, and we've written her that the book is here. I'm very sorry!"

The woman with poppies: "Oh, is that so?"

(She reaches over, and deftly withdraws the envelope from Miss V.'s fingers, and replaces it in her card-case. Then she speaks again:)

"I am so sorry. Perhaps you won't be able to go to the reception this evening, anyhow. Good afternoon, Miss Vanderpyl, good afternoon."

(And she goes out, smiling sweetly.)

Two high-school students, at once: "Can I get 'The Merchant of Venice' in the Rolfe edition?"

Edgar (to Miss V.): "There's a man here that wants 'The Only Way.'"

Miss V.: "Perhaps he means 'A Tale of Two Cities,'--there's a dramatic version--"

A thin young man: "Your open-shelf department is a fine idea, fine! I have been able to select my own books; I like such a liberal policy; it shows--"

A man with a portfolio: "Look here, miss, here's the best chance you ever see in your life: the complete Speeches of William J. Bryan, bound in purple plush, for six dollars, but we can let you have two copies for nine seventy five, ev'ry lib'ry in the country's got it, and Andrew Carnegie ordered five--"

Edgar: "That man says he don't want the 'Tale of Two Cities,'--he thinks the book he's after is 'How To Get In' or something like that."

Miss V.: "He means 'One Way Out,'--see if there is a copy in, will you?"

A woman: "Just let me take that pencil of yours, a minute?"

A man (mopping his brow): "Say, what's this 'open-shelf' business,--d'ye have to find your own books? Well, that's the worst thing I ever saw,--why, at the Boston Public Library they get 'em for you!"

A teacher: "Now, I want to return these three, please, and this is to be transferred to Miss Jimson's card,--she'll be here in a minute, and then I want these two renewed, and I want to get 'The Century of the Child,' and if that isn't in I want--"

Miss V.: "Return the books at the other desk, please.... Oh, would you mind returning my pencil?"

The teacher: "Oh, yes, how stupid of me!"

A woman leading a child: "Haf you de Deutsches Balladenbuch?"

Miss V.: "Will you look it up in the catalogue, please? Over there ... yes,--look up the author's name, just like a dictionary."