Once upon a time there was a peaceful Kingdom which you will hardly find
upon the map. In one corner of the Kingdom by the sea was the pretty
little Town of Kisington, where a great many strange things had happened
in the past, the chronicles of which filled the town library.
On the High Street of Kisington lived a boy named Harold, who was chief
of all the boys in town. He could run faster, jump higher, solve a
problem more quickly, and throw a ball farther than any other lad of his
age. He was tall and straight and broad-shouldered. His hair was brown
and curly, and his eyes were sky-color,--sometimes blue, sometimes gray,
sometimes almost black. All the boys liked Harold, especially Richard
and Robert, his chums. And Harold liked all the boys and their doings;
especially these same two, Robert and Richard.
Harold was the son of a poor widow; one of the poorest in the Kingdom.
But though she was so poor, the mother of Harold was determined that her
son should be a scholar, because he liked books. And she worked early
and late to earn the money for his education.
When Harold was not in school or playing out of doors with the other
boys, he always had a book in his hand. Often this happened in the town
library, where Harold loved to go. But almost as often it happened at
home. For though Harold liked to read to himself, he liked quite as well
to read aloud to his mother, who ever since she was a tiny child had
always been so busy taking care of other people that she had never found
time to learn to read for herself. The greatest happiness of her life
came in the evening when her work was done. Then she could sit in a cozy
chair in their cottage and hear her boy read the exciting books which he
got from the library of Kisington. And the other boys--especially
Richard and Robert--liked also to hear Harold read; for his voice was
agreeable and he read simply and naturally, without any gestures or
tremulous tones, without pulling queer faces such as make listeners
want to sink through the floor with embarrassment.
Every time Harold read a story aloud he liked it better than before;
every time he read aloud he read better than he had done the last time,
until there was nobody in Kisington, not even the Librarian himself, who
was so good a reader as Harold. But the other boys were not jealous,
Harold was so good-natured and always ready to read to them.
The Librarian was a very important personage indeed in Kisington. You
see, this was a peaceful Kingdom, where books were more thought of than
bullets, and libraries than battleships. The Librarian wore a splendid
velvet gown with fur upon the hood, and a gold chain around his neck
with a medal, and he was second in importance only to the Lord Mayor
himself.
One summer evening the windows of the cottage where Harold and his
mother lived were wide open, and Harold was reading aloud to her. For a
wonder, they were quite by themselves. The Librarian, who was a lonely
old fellow without chick or child of his own, happened to be passing
down the High Street when he heard the sound of a voice reading. It
read so well that he stopped to listen. Presently he tapped on the door
and begged to be invited within the better to hear the reading. The
widow was very proud and pleased, you may be sure. She bade the
Librarian welcome, and Harold continued to read until curfew sounded for
every one to go to bed. The Librarian patted him on the head and asked
if he might come again to hear such good reading. He came, in fact, the
very next night.
After that Harold usually had an audience of at least two on the long
evenings, even when the other boys were busy. The Librarian became his
fast friend. He liked to come to the little cottage better than anywhere
else in the world, except to his own library. But at the library he in
turn was host, and Harold became his guest. And he showed Harold many
wonderful things in that library of which no one but the Librarian knew
the existence,--strange histories, forgotten chronicles, wonder-tales.
Gradually Harold became almost as well acquainted with the books as was
the Librarian himself; though, of course, he did not at first understand
them all. Nothing happens all at once. The other fellows called Harold
the "Book-Wizard."
The library was a beautiful building on the main square, close by the
Lord Mayor's house and the belfry, where swung the great town bell. It
was open freely to every one, from morning until night, and any one
could always get any book he wanted, for there were many copies of each
book. The caretakers always knew just where to find the book one wished.
Or the reader might go in and choose for himself; which is a pleasanter
thing when you have forgotten the name of your book, or do not know just
which book you want most until you have looked about.
The shelves of the library were nice and low, so that, no matter how
little you were, you could reach the books without standing on tiptoe or
climbing a dangerous ladder. And everywhere in the library were
well-lighted tables to put books on, and cozy chairs, and crickets for
your feet, and cushions for your back. There were wide window-seats,
too, where between chapters one could curl up and look down into a
beautiful garden.
The air of the library was always sweet and clean. The books were always
bright and fresh. There was no noise, nor dust, nor torn pages, nor
cross looks to disturb one. The people who took care of the books were
civil and obliging. It was indeed a very rare and unusual library. No
wonder Harold and the Librarian and all the other citizens of Kisington
loved it and were proud of it and used it very often.