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?"