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."
A man: "They tell me in the reading-room that you don't have Victoria
Cross's novels in the library. Now, I would like to know why that is!"
Miss V.: "You will have to ask the librarian about it,--I have nothing
to do with buying the books."
The man: "That's what they told me in the reading-room, and I tried to
see him, but he isn't in. Everyone trying to dodge responsibility, I
guess. It makes me sick the way these libraries are run." (Addressing
the public generally:) "What right have these library people,--paid
public servants, public employees, that's all they are--what right have
they to dictate what I shall read? Why, her novels are reviewed in all
the best papers on the other side."
A voice from the rear of the crowd: "Why don't you do something about
it?"
The man: "Well, I'm going to, by George!"
(He goes away, muttering.)
The woman with the child (returning triumphant): "Ha! I haf her! Here
she iss!"
(She extends the catalogue card, which she has ripped forcibly from its
drawer. Miss Wilkins, head cataloguer of the library, who happens to be
passing at that moment, sees the incident, and sits down suddenly on a
bench, and has recourse to smelling salts.)
An imposing personage (who has stalked out from the reference room
bearing a Spanish dictionary, and is followed excitedly by Miss
Barnard, the reference librarian): "I want to borrow this dictionary
until next Tuesday, and that woman in there says I can't, just because
it says 'Ref.' on it. _I_ won't hurt it!"
Miss V.: "Those books are not allowed to go out of the library."
The personage: "Why not?"
Miss V.: "They are reference books,--they are to be used in that room
only."
The personage: "Who made that rule?"
Miss V.: "The trustees, I suppose,--it is one of the rules of the
library."
The personage: "Well, I know Colonel Schwartz!"
Miss V.: "Well, if you will get his permission, you may take the
book,--I am not allowed to give it out."
(The personage lays the book on the desk, from which it is quickly
recovered by Miss Barnard, who hastens back to the reference room with
it.)
The personage: "I've got to get something like that,--I had a letter
from Havana this morning, and I want to find out what it means."
Miss V.: "Oh, we have some books which will do for that, I think." (To
Alfred, the page.) "Get one of those Spanish grammars, Alfred,--be sure
and see that there's a vocabulary in it."
(Alfred returns presently with a grammar. Miss V. extends her hand for
the personage's library card. The personage looks at her helplessly,
and finally shakes hands with her, remarking: "Oh, that's all right,
miss,--don't mention it!")
Miss V. (becoming rather red): "Your card?"
The personage (mystified): "Card?"
Miss V.: "Yes, your library card,--haven't you one?"
The personage: "You can search me!"
Miss V.: "Why, I can't give you a book unless you have a card,--haven't
you ever borrowed books from the library?"
The personage: "Never in my life." (Suddenly exploding.) "Great Scott!
I never saw so much red tape in my life."
Miss V.: "Well, here--"
(And she breaks a library rule herself, by getting the name and address
of the personage, and giving him the book, charged on her own card. But
she gets rid of him at last.)
A man, with a confidential manner (leaning over the desk, and
whispering): "Say, lady, I want to get a book."
Miss V.: "What book do you want?"
The confidential man (pursing up his lips, and nodding his head, as if
to tip her the wink): "Why,--er, why,--_that same one_, yer know!"
(Miss V. looks at him carefully, but as she cannot distinguish him
amongst the forty thousand persons who have entered the library during
the past year, she is forced to make further inquiries.)
Miss V.: "Which same one? I don't remember--"
The confidential man: "Why, _you_ know!" (His manner indicates that it
is a delicate personal secret between Miss V. and himself.) "That one I
had last summer, yer know."
Miss V.: "What was the title?"
The confidential man: "The title?--Oh, the _name_ of it?" (He regards
Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose
curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! the _name_ of it! I've
clean forgot _that_!"
(Having thus brushed aside her trivial question, he regards the ceiling
and awaits the arrival of the book.)
Miss V.: "Who was the author--who wrote it?"
(The confidential man is now convinced that Miss V., for some playful
reason of her own, is merely trying to keep him at the desk,--that she
has the book within reach, but chooses to be kittenish about it. He
smiles pleasantly at her.)
The confidential man: "Lord, I dunno!--Just let me have it, will yer?"
(He is still quite agreeable--as if he were saying: "Come, come, young
lady, I know it's very nice to string out this conversation, but,
after all, business is business! Let me have my book, for I must be
going.")
Miss V.: "I'm afraid I can't give it to you unless you can tell me
something more about it,--something definite. We have over four hundred
thousand books in this library, you know, and if you don't recall the
author or the title--"
(The confidential man receives the news about the four hundred thousand
books with the air of a person listening to a fairy tale. The idea that
there are as many books as that in the whole world, to say nothing of
one library, strikes him as it would if Miss V. should tell him that
she is the rightful Queen of England.)
Miss V.: "Can't you tell me about the book,--what it was about, I mean?"
The confidential man (beginning to lose his patience, at last):
"_About?_ Why, it was about a lot of things!"
Miss V.: "Was it fiction--a novel?"
The confidential man: "Huh?"
Miss V.: "Was it a story? or a book of travels--"
(The confidential man gazes at her with oystery eyes. Suddenly he
becomes more animated.)
The confidential man: "There! It looked just like that!"
(He points across the desk at a novel bound in the uniform style of
the library bindery, from which six thousand volumes, bound precisely
alike, come every year.)
Miss V.: "Is that it?" (She hands him the book.)
The confidential man: "No, no. Oh, no. Nothin' like it." (He puts it
down, and wanders away, thinking that he will come back when there is
some intelligent attendant at the desk.)
An excited person: "Look here, I've been reading those names on the
ceiling, and Longfellow's isn't there! Now, I'd like to know why that
is!"
Another man: "And they haven't got 'The Appeal to Reason' in the
reading room."
Another man: "That's because it's Carnegie's library, ain't it, miss?"
Miss V.: "No,--he has nothing to do with the library at all."
The man: "Why, I thought he run it, don't he?"
Miss V.: "He gave the money for the building,--that is all. He has
never been in it, nor seen it, so far as I know."
The man: "That's all right! I guess you'll find he runs it, just the
same."
The first man: "I guess so, too."
Miss V.: "It must keep him rather busy, don't you think, running all
his libraries?"
The man: "Oh, he can have people in his pay, all right."
(He and his friend gaze about, to see if they can detect any of these
secret agents. They both look suspiciously toward Miss Randlett at the
return desk.)
The very large woman (who has returned to gather up her macaroni, her
two dozen eggs, and her black bag, and to have her books charged):
"Now, here I am at last! I couldn't get 'Airy, Fairy Lilian,' but
here's 'She Walks in Beauty,' an' 'Miss Petticoats,' an' you can put
_that_ on my card, an' here's Minnie's card for _that_, an' if you'll
just put the eggs in my bag, I'll be all right."
TO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRON
TO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRON
Uncombed, a bit unwashed, with freckled face,
And slowly moving jaws--implying gum;
A decade's meagre dignity of years
Upon your head--your only passports these,
All unconcerned you enter--Fairyland!
For here dwell monstrous Jinn, and great birds fly
Through haunted valleys sown with diamonds.
Here Rumpelstiltskin hides his secret name,
The talking Flounder comes at beck and call,
The King of Lilliput reviews his troops,
The Jabberwock and Bandersnatch cavort,
And mice and pumpkin change to coach and four.
Once more for you is Sherwood's forest green,
Where arrows hiss and sword and shield resound;
Within these walls shall you and Crusoe stand
Aghast, to see the footprint on the beach;
From here you start your journey to the Moon,
Cruise on the raft with Huckleberry Finn,
Or sentinel the mouth of Cudjo's Cave.
Here, when your years have doubled, shall you see
King Henry and his men on Crispin's Day,
The Scottish thane hold parley with the hags,
Sir Richard Grenville fight the Spanish fleet,
Great Hector and Achilles face to face!
This is your Palos whence you turn your prow
To sail uncharted seas and find strange isles.
Here shall you stand with brave Leonidas;
Here watch old Davy Crockett fight and fall.
Amid these dusty shelves you'll see the glow
When Paul Jones lights his battle-lanterns here;
Muskets shall roar and tomahawks shall flash
In many deep and dismal forest glades.
Here shall you see the Guillotine at work!
And mark the Sun of Austerlitz arise.
Again, you'll bide the Redcoats on the Hill,
Or watch the fight on Cemetery Ridge.
But you--with towsled hair and stockings torn,
Irreverent and calm and unabashed,
Intent on swiping Billy Johnson's cap--
You pass the magic portal unaware,
And, careless, saunter into lands of gold.
BY-WAYS AND HEDGES
BY-WAYS AND HEDGES
Fernald got off the trolley car and looked about for Graham House. He
did not have to look long, for on the steps of a brick building there
were thirty to fifty children waiting for the settlement library to
open. That event ought to happen at seven o'clock, and the illuminated
dial on the fire engine house, across the street, now indicated five
minutes of seven. Fernald went up the steps, through the crowd, and
turned to the right into the library room. There was a confusion of
noises--two or three nervous giggles and snickers, a loud shuffling of
feet, and a few articulate questions.
"Where's the teacher?"
"Ain't the teacher comin'?"
"Mister, you ain't got the lady's job away from her, have yer?"
And then, apparently in derogation of the last inquiry: "Shut up, you!"
Fernald took off his coat and left it on a bench. Then he unlocked the
bookcases, which were instantly surrounded by a hungry swarm. He took
the boxes of card records from a shelf, and established himself with
rubber stamp, pencil, and pen at the smaller table. A few children
already sat about the larger table, looking at the worn copies of
"Puck" and "Collier's." A freckled-faced girl, about twelve years old,
came behind the table and whispered confidentially into his ear:
"Ain't the real teacher comin', Mister?"
"Yes," explained Fernald, "she is coming in about half an hour. You can
get your books from me until she comes."
"Oh!"
There was deep, Christian resignation in the tone, and Fernald felt the
rebuke. At the main library he was superior in station to the "real
teacher," but here his evident inferiority was painful. But he had no
time to dwell on it, for there were at least seventeen children, both
boys and girls, from ten to sixteen years old standing about him on
three sides, and all holding one or two books toward him. He tried to
remember Miss Grant's (the "real teacher's") final instructions.
"Five cents a week on all books which have been kept out longer than
two weeks. Don't give back any cards which have 'Fine due' stamped on
them. If any of them ask for new cards, give them a guarantor's slip,
tell them to fill it out, get it signed by some grown person whose name
is in the directory, and bring it back next week. Look out for Minnie
Leboskey, she owes fifteen cents and will try to get her card back.
Don't lose your temper with them--they all behave pretty well, but if
any of the boys throw snowballs in at the top of the window get Mr.
Flaherty, the janitor, to drive them away."
He looked into the numerous faces, wondering if the nefarious Minnie
Leboskey were there. In the meanwhile he was mechanically taking in the
books, stamping the cards, and handing them back. He noticed that his
fingers grew very sticky in the process. Most of the children brought
another book to the desk with the one they were returning. This was one
they had already selected from the shelves, and they now desired to
exchange it for the books they handed in. Sometimes their preconcerted
schemes were confusing to the substitute librarian, as when, for
instance:
Theresa Sullivan returned two books, one of which was to be re-issued
immediately to Margaret Clancy, while the other was to be charged on
the card of Nora Clancy, who was sick with ammonia and so couldn't
come to the library that evening. But the book which Margaret returned
must be loaned to Theresa--that is, one of them must be, while the
other was to be given into the keeping of Mary Finnegan, who, in her
turn, brought back three books (two on her own cards, and one on her
mother's), and her mother wanted the book that Eustacia O'Brien had
returned (there it is, right on the desk in front of you--that's
Eustacia over there at the water-cooler), and please, Mary Finnegan
herself wants this book that Mary Divver has just brought in on her
white card, and on her blue card she wants the one she is going to get
(if sundry elbow jabs in the ribs will have any effect) from Agnes
Casey, and that ain't nothin' on the cover except a teeny little piece
of tolu gum, and Nellie Sullivan wants to know if "Little Women" is in,
and if it isn't will you please pick something out for her, Mister,
'cause she has tried four times to get "Little Women," and please give
me this book that Lizzie Brady has just brought in on my white card,
and this is my blue card, and my father says that this book on electric
door-knobs ain't no good and he wants another.
After twenty uninterrupted minutes of this sort of thing Fernald (who
had once pitched for his class nine and stood calm while the sophomores
exploded bunches of cannon crackers around him and sprayed him with a
garden hose) felt inclined to jump up and roar:
"For God's sake, hold your tongues!"
He did nothing of the sort, however, for at that moment a scuffle broke
out at the bookcase between two boys. He left his table long enough to
separate the boys and tell them to stop fighting or he would put them
out.
He couldn't help remembering Miss Grant and her associate, Miss French,
who, after eight hours in the main library during the day, came over
here each Thursday evening for the mere love of it.
The chief librarian had visited the place once--a year ago, coming at
half-past eight, when all was orderly and quiet. He looked blandly
around for a few moments and then went away. A few weeks later he
included in his annual report a perfunctory sentence about the
faithful service of the two young women.
Miss Grant came at about half-past seven, and Fernald turned the desk
over to her.
"I wish you would get that red-haired girl a 'sad book,'" he remarked;
"she has been after me ever since I arrived for a 'sad book.' Have you
anything sufficiently mournful?"
Miss Grant thought she could supply the need, but Fernald did not learn
what the book was, for, as she came back from the shelves, she remarked:
"I am afraid that boy needs watching. He comes here only for
mischief--never takes any books."
She indicated a tall, lank youth of unpleasant countenance, and about
fifteen years old. He was sitting at the center table, moving the
magazines about, and watching the librarians out of the corners of his
eyes.
"Have you had trouble with him before?" asked Fernald.
"Oh, yes," said Miss Grant, "he tripped me up last Thursday night."
"_What?_ Tripped you up?"
"Yes--stuck out his foot as I went by the table with an armful of
books. I fell and spilled the books all over the floor."
"Why, the young pup! Shall I put him out?"
"No; he hasn't done anything to-night."
At this moment the boy seized a magazine and rapidly slapped three
smaller boys over the head with it. One of the little boys began to
cry, and Mr. Fernald, remarking, "I guess that will do, won't it?"
conducted the perpetrator of the offence to the outer door.
As soon as he felt the grip on his collar relax, the boy ran to the
middle of the street, and armed himself, not with the gentle snowball,
but with four or five of the hard lumps of ice which, mingled with dirt
and gravel, covered the street.
"Come out from in front of that glass door," the boy shouted, "and let
me have a shot at yer! Aw, yer don't dare to! Yer're scared to!"
And Mr. Fernald, not being a true sportsman, had to admit to himself
that he was scared to. He gazed at the boy a moment or two, and then
went slowly inside. The boy set up a derisive yell, showing that the
victory remained with the Child of Darkness, as it frequently does.
* * * * *
His experience of one evening in the settlement library made Fernald
anxious to see more of the work. He returned on the following
Thursday, but a little later than the time of his first visit. It was
half-past seven, and the settlement was in full swing. Loud whoops
and yells, combined with noise as of a herd of buffaloes, indicated
that a basketball game was in progress in the basement gymnasium. The
rumble and crash of a bowling alley were partly drowned by the cries
from a back room, where various minor games were being enjoyed. The two
library assistants, Miss Grant and Miss French, were dispensing books
in the room near the entrance.
Fernald had just taken his coat off when Mr. Flaherty, the janitor,
beckoned him to the door of the library by the nonchalant method of
standing in the door and throwing his chin in the air with a series
of short jerks. When Fernald went across the room to find what was
wanted, Mr. Flaherty drew him mysteriously into the passage.
"Say, I guess yer got into some trouble here last week, didn't yer?"
"Trouble? No; I don't remember any trouble."
"Didn't yer put a feller out, or somethin'?"
"Oh, yes; I forgot. I did put a boy out. What's the matter--is he back
again?"
"Him? No. The old man's here, though. Been waitin' for an hour. Says
he's going to have the law on yer."
Fernald became interested.
"Where is he?" he inquired.
"He's in here. Been settin' by the stove, and now he's gone to sleep.
I'll send him out to yer. But don't yer worry about no law. Godfrey!
I've had more'n forty of 'em goin' to have the law on me."
"I'm not worried," Fernald assured him, and the other departed in
search of the wrathful parent.
This person soon appeared in the form of a short, stout man with a
straggly yellow moustache and a very red face. He had enormously long
arms, so that his hat, which he carried in one hand, hung nearly on a
level with his ankles. He was blinking at the lights, and was plainly
more than half asleep. Also it was evident that the wrath had gone out
of him. He looked inquiringly at Fernald, as though the librarian, not
he, were seeking the interview. He continued to blink, until at last
Fernald had to begin the conversation.
"You wanted to see me? Something about your son?"
"Oh, yes. Say, he come home, an' he says you put him outer here."
"Yes, I did," replied Fernald; "that was a week ago to-night. And if I
had been here two weeks ago, and had had a cow-hide, I would have given
him a good licking. He needs one."
The man looked greatly astonished, but said nothing, so the librarian
continued:
"I put him out last week for banging three little boys over the heads
with a magazine. I had been watching him for ten minutes. He doesn't
come in here to play in the gymnasium--which is what he needs--nor to
read. He comes into the library every week just to raise the devil.
This was the first time he had ever touched a book--when he picked up
one to lambaste these boys with it. And two weeks ago he stuck his foot
out when one of the women who had charge of the library was passing
the table, and she tripped and fell flat, with an armful of books. If
he wants to come back and behave, he may, but he can't come otherwise."
"He says you choked him," remarked the man.
"He lies," said Fernald. "I took him by the collar and put him
out--that's all. He was quite able, as soon as I let him go, to run
into the street and pick up half a dozen lumps of ice, and swear at me,
and dare me to come out from in front of the glass door, so he could
have the pleasure of breaking my face without any risk of breaking the
glass."
"Oh, well," the man returned, "it's all right then. As soon as I see
you, I knew it was all right."
Fernald was somewhat mystified at the impression he had made. He was
not especially tremendous physically, and although he came clad in the
armor of righteousness on this particular occasion, he had no delusions
about the effect that kind of armor is likely to have on a man of this
sort. But the father of the boy went on to explain:
"Say, yer know, I didn't know but it was some of these here kids that
had been pickin' on him. I wouldn't stand for that, yer know. But
soon's I see you I knew it was all right. Say, he ain't got no business
here, anyhow. I told him so. I don't want him to come. It ain't a fit
place."
And the man departed, wishing the librarian good-night. Fernald was
thoroughly resigned to the idea of the boy not coming any more, but
he could not help smiling at the idea that it wasn't a fit place.
Graham House, the pet charity of a large and prosperous church, had
been described in the words that its officers might have used of some
particularly obnoxious saloon or gambling joint. He imagined how the
Rev. Alexander Lambeth, who came over once or twice a week to smile
around the place, clerically--how he would look at hearing one of the
residents of the neighborhood describe it as not "a fit place" for his
son to visit in the evening.
Fernald went back into the library room. It was crowded with children,
and the two librarians had their hands full. One of them was charging
books at the desk; the other was making desperate endeavors to get the
books in the cases in some sort of order, to find certain volumes which
some of the children wished, to keep the children fairly quiet, and, in
general, to regulate the discipline of the place.
There were no particularly ill-behaved youngsters--one or two who were
pretending to look at the "picture papers" at the table, in reality
were merely waiting for a chance to get into a scuffle, or in some
other way to "put the liberry on the bum."
The children's room at the central library was a quieter place. It
was in a much quieter part of the town; the impressive architecture
(impressive to children, at least), spacious rooms, and other
accessories produced a more typical "library atmosphere."