The new librarian entered upon her duties bright and early Monday
morning. She closed with a quick snap the little wicket-gate that
separated the books from the outer vestibule, briskly arranged her
paste-tube, her dated stamp, and her box of slips, and summoned her
young assistant sharply. The assistant was reading _Molly Bawn_ and
eating caramels, and she shut book and bag quickly, wiping her mouth as
she hurried to her superior.
"Now, Miss Mather, I expect to get fifty books properly labelled and
shelved before noon," said the new librarian, "and there must be no
time wasted. If anyone wants me, I shall be in Section K," and she
turned to go.
Section K was only a few feet from the registering-table, but it
pleased the new librarian to assume the existence of long corridors
of volumes, with dumb-waiters and gongs and bustling, basket-laden
attendants. So much majesty did she throw into her sentence, indeed,
that the young assistant, who had always, under the old régime,
privately referred to Section K as "those old religious books," and
advised the few persons interested in them to "go right in behind and
see if the book you refer to is there," was staggered for a moment, and
involuntarily glanced behind her, to see if there had been a recent
addition to the building.
The new librarian strode down between the cases, glancing quickly from
side to side to detect mislaid or hastily shoved-in volumes. Suddenly
she stopped.
"What are you doing in here, little boy?" she said abruptly.
In the angle of the case marked "Books of Travel, Adventure, etc.,"
seated upon a pile of encyclopædias, with his head leaning against
_Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_, was a small boy. He was
dark of eyes and hair, palely sallow, ten or eleven years old, to
appearance. By his side leaned a crutch, and a clumsy wooden boot,
built up several inches from the sole, explained the need of this. A
heavy, much-worn book was spread across his little knees.
He looked up vaguely, hardly seeming to see the librarian.
"What are you doing here? How did you get in?" she repeated.
"I'm reading," he replied, not offering to rise, "I just came in."
"But this isn't the place to read. You must go in the reading-room,"
she admonished him.
"I always read here. I'd rather," he said, pleasantly enough, dropping
his eyes to his book, as if the matter were closed.
Now the new librarian thoroughly disapproved of the ancient custom that
penned the books away from all handling, and fully intended to throw
them open to the public in a few months' time, when she should have
them properly systematised; but she resented this anticipation of what
she intended for a much-appreciated future privilege.
"But why should you read in here, when none of the other children can?"
she demanded.
The boy raised his eyes again.
"Mr. Littlejohn lets me--I always do," he repeated.
The new librarian pressed her lips together with an air of highly
creditable restraint.
"Mr. Littlejohn allowed a great many irregularities which have been
stopped," she announced, "and as there is no reason why you should do
what the other children cannot, you will have to go. So hurry up, for
I'm very busy this morning."
She did not speak unkindly, but there was an unmistakable decision in
her tone, and the boy got up awkwardly, tucked his crutch under his
arm, and laying the big book down with care, went out in silence, his
heavy boot echoing unevenly on the hardwood floor. The librarian went
on to Section K.
Presently the young assistant, who had been accustomed to keep her
crocheted lace-work on the Philosophical shelf, directly behind the
_Critique of Pure Reason_, recollected that it would in all human
probability be discovered, on the removal of that epoch-making
treatise, and came hastily down to get it. Having concealed it safely
in her pocket, she paused.
"That was Jimmy Reese you sent out--did you know it?" she asked.
"No, what of it?"
"Why, nothing, only he's always read in here ever since I came. Mr.
Littlejohn was very fond of him. He helped pick out some of the books.
He----"
"Picked out the books--that child? Great heavens!"
"Well, he's read a good deal, Jimmy has," the assistant contended.
"It's all he does. He can't play like the other children, he's so lame.
He seems real old, anyhow. And he's always been here. He helps giving
out the books, and helps the children pick out. He was very convenient
when Mr. Littlejohn didn't like to be waked up."
"Great heavens!" the librarian cried again.
"I think you'll find he'll be missed, you being so new," the assistant
persevered.
"I think I can manage to carry on the library, Miss Mather," replied
her superior coldly, "without any assistance from the children of the
town. Will you begin on that Fiction, please?"
She walked on again, but paused to put away the brown book, which lay
where the intruder had left it, a mute witness to the untidiness of the
laity. Opening it briskly, she glanced at the title:
The
AGE OF FABLE
or