THE CROWDED HOUR

THE CROWDED HOURTHE 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, thosehorridcards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in theirdreadfulmeshes! 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' ItoldHattie to keep her hands off them books,—well, I'll put it back in my bag—here, young man! youleave 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 tothatdesk."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 meleave 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 onlyonecopy 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'vequiterecovered 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'sveryexclusive, and the tickets are awfully hard to get. I felt sure you'd like to go and take a friend. They are not giving thetickets 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."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 dodgeresponsibility, 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 thatmoment, 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.Iwon'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,youknow!" (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,thenameof it?" (He regards Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! thenameof it! I've clean forgotthat!"(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 tolose 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 willcome 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 putthaton my card, an' here's Minnie's card forthat, an' if you'll just put the eggs in my bag, I'll be all right."TO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRONTO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRONUncombed, a bit unwashed, with freckled face,And slowly moving jaws—implying gum;A decade's meagre dignity of yearsUpon your head—your only passports these,All unconcerned you enter—Fairyland!For here dwell monstrous Jinn, and great birds flyThrough 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 standAghast, 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 seeKing 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 prowTo 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 glowWhen Paul Jones lights his battle-lanterns here;Muskets shall roar and tomahawks shall flashIn 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 HEDGESBY-WAYS AND HEDGESFernald 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 backnext 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 schemeswere 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 justbrought 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 andsprayed 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 perfunctorysentence 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, andwatching 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 anxiousto 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 wentacross 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 hadmore'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 thelibrary 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 notespecially 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, hadbeen 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."Here, the fact that their feet were on their native heath, the familiar noises of wagons and clanging trolley cars outside, and the hubbub of the gymnasium below, all conspired to make the children a little more restless.Fernald listened to Miss Grant, who sat at the desk with fifteen girls and boysand one or two older persons around her. The older ones were parents or friends who lived in the neighborhood and frequented the library. Miss Grant was discharging the books as they were returned, charging new ones, and incidentally acting as literary adviser and bureau of information."Is this the one you want—'The Halfback'? It hasn't been discharged—who brought this in? Oh, you did—you're returning it? You mustn't take the card out till I have stamped it. And this is the book you want to take?"A voice from the rear of the crowd: "No, 'm, that's mine."Another voice: "'Tain't neither, teacher, it's mine; she promised it to me last Choosday."The first voice: "Oh, you big—I didn't do nothin' of the sort, teacher!"A man, elbowing his way to the front, and relying on the fascinations of his dyed moustache and hat tilted to one side: "Say, jus' gimme this, will yer?"While Miss Grant is charging the book, he leans over her confidentially:"Say, don't you or that other young lady belong to the Order of the Golden Bazoo? Don't yer? Say, that's too bad—we're goin' to have a little dance to-morrer night at the Red Men's hall. We'd be glad to have yer come. Say, you can come anyway—I can get yer in all right Yer can meet me at the drugstore on the corner, here, and I'll—"A small girl with a red tam-o'shanter, interrupting: "Teacher, me an' Minnie Leboskey just took out these books—this is mine—'The Birds' Chris'mas Carol' and this is Minnie's—'Sarter Resortus'an' Minnie has read it hundreds of times, an' she says she don't want it again, an' please, teacher, this here is a kid's book, an' I don't want it, an' will yer give me somethin' for my mother, she says she's read the one you sent her last week, an' can she take the White House Cook Book, too, on the same card?"A tall and very resolute-looking woman, with three books under her arm: "Have you got 'The Leopard's Spots' in this library? I want my son to read it. He has just finished 'The Clansman,' but he has never read 'The Leopard's Spots.'"Miss Grant: "Why, how old is he?"The resolute-looking woman, presenting cherubic-faced urchin: "This is him—he'll be twelve next April."Miss Grant: "I'm sure we have some other books that he'll like better than 'The Leopard's Spots.' That is not achild's book—there is a copy at the central library, but it is not kept in the children's room. Wouldn't you like—"The resolute-looking woman: "No, I wouldn't. I know what I want. I'm his mother, and I guess I know what's what. You needn't try to dictate to me. Have you got it here or haven't you? That's all I want to know. I can't find it over there on those shelves."Miss Grant: "No; we have not."The woman: "All right, then, I'll go somewhere else—for he's goin' to read that book, whether or no."A young lady, an acquaintance of Miss Grant, who thinks she is doing a little slumming: "Oh, Miss Grant, how do you do? I promised that I'd come and help you, you know. How perfectly delightful this is—only some boys on the corner threw snowballs at Jean and he wouldn'tbring the automobile nearer than the next block—he's waiting there now, and he's terribly peeved. Now, what shall I do—shall I sit down here and help you?"A small boy: "Say, teacher, come over here an' make this feller give me my book."Another small boy: "Aw, I ain't got his book."First small boy: "Yes, yer have, too!"The other small boy: "No, I ain't—"His remarks end in a yelp as the elbow of the first boy goes home in his ribs. The two clinch, and fall over a settee, from which they are pulled up and separated by Mr. Fernald. The young lady in search of slumming experiences observes that another small boy is experimenting with a penful of red ink, while Miss Grant's back is turned, to see how far he can flip the ink. The young ladydecides she will go and see if her chauffeur is in any further trouble, and she departs hastily, assuring the librarian that she will return soon. She does not reappear, however.A youth, apparently a butcher's assistant, wearing a blue frock, and carrying a slice of meat (for which some family is indignantly waiting): "Say, miss, my grandmother wanted me to get her a book called—say, it had a funny name, it was 'It Didn't Use to Be,' or something like that. Have you got it?"Miss Grant: "Yes, I think so. You go over to Miss French—the lady across the room there, and ask her to see if 'It Never Can Happen Again' is on the shelves."The youth: "That was it, I knew it was something like that."A severe-looking woman, about thirty-eightyears old: "Good evening. Have you ever read this book?"She exhibits a copy of "Barrack Room Ballads," and does not wait for Miss Grant to reply. "I have not read the whole of it—I only looked into it here and there. It ought not be in any library—it is full of the most disgusting profanity. You ought to know about it, and you ought to withdraw it from the shelves immediately."Katie Finnegan, aged fifteen, leaning heavily on Miss Grant's left shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's left ear: "Teacher, are you goin' to let me walk home with you to-night?"Maggie Burke, aged thirteen, leaning on Miss Grant's right shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's right ear: "Say, Miss Grant, I think your hat is just lovely."A serious-faced man, evidently a workingman in his best clothes: "Haven't you got the Encyclopædia Britannica here? I can't find it on those tables."A girl of twelve: "Teacher, I want Tolstoi's 'Little Women.'"A deeply irritated man: "Look here, I'd like to know what this means! D'ye see this postal? Well, look there: 'Please return Evans's 'A Sailor's Log' which is charged on your card. The fine amounts to twenty cents.' I ain't never had no book outer this place!"Miss Grant: "Perhaps you took it from the central library, or one of the other branches?"The irritated one: "No, I didn't neither. I ain't never had no books outer no library!"His companion, another man, with views on capital and labor: "Aw, it's justone of Carnegie's games to get money out of yer."The irritated man: "Well, he won't get no money outer me."Miss Grant, who has read the name "John Smith" on the other side of the post-card: "Perhaps this came to you by mistake—it was meant for someone else of the same name, maybe."The irritated man: "Well, you can keep it—I don't want it, anyhow."He and his friend depart, much pleased at having baffled Carnegie this time.Miss French, the other librarian, laying a very dirty slip of paper on Miss Grant's desk: "What do you suppose this means? There is a boy waiting for the book, but we haven't anything about shingling—I've looked in the catalogue twice."Miss Grant read the note, which ran: "plees give barer why not shingel thehouse and oblige Mrs. coffey 2795 forth street."Miss Grant: "Oh, yes—just write her a note, will you, Miss French? Tell her we haven't any of Frank Danby's books. She wants 'Let the Roof Fall In,' you know."A small boy: "Have you any books about explosions? Mother says she wants one about the Pan-American explosion."Another small boy: "Haven't you got the Mutt and Jeff book yet? When are you goin' to get it?"A small girl: "Please, can I keep this book on how to bring up parrots till next week?"The janitor of the building: "Closin' time in five minutes, Miss."Two women: "Oh, what's he putting out the lights for? I haven't found a book yet!"MULCHMULCHToward spring the books on gardening begin to come into the library, and I look them over with fresh enthusiasm. Mrs. Bunkum is no longer my favorite author in this field, but her sister writers are very dear to my heart.There is Mrs. Reginald Creasus. I seize her latest volume with the eagerness of a child. I like to see the pictures of the new marble bench which she has imported from Pompeii and set up at the end of the Rose Walk. Then she usually has a new sculptured group—a fountain, or some other little trifle by Rodin or St. Gaudens, which looks so well amidst the Japanese iris.After gazing at these illustrations fora while, I go home and observe the red woodshed, and I declare it looks altogether different. It is wonderful how discontented with your lot you can get by reading Mrs. Creasus's books on gardening. Sometimes I think that I am making a mistake in voting the Republican ticket, year after year. Mr. Debs may be right, after all.This year Mrs. Creasus calls her volume "The Simple Garden." From it I gathered that anyone who knows anything at all will not pass the summer without an Abyssinian hibiscus unfolding its lovely blooms somewhere on the place. They are absolutely necessary, in fact. You have to be careful with them—when you plant them, that is. The fertilizer which they require has to be fetched from the island of Ascension. I calculated that by going without food or clothes for two years Icould just about buy and support one of them.I wish Mrs. Creasus would write a book about the complicated garden. I should like to see it.Just as I had bought a garden hose, along came Mrs. Creasus's book, remarking casually that it is well to have the whole garden laid out with underground water-pipes, placed at least six feet below the surface, to avoid frost. Two or three private reservoirs are, of course, an essential. I wonder what Mrs. Creasus keeps in these reservoirs. I suppose it is champagne, but I wouldn't like to ask.Scotch gardeners are going out, she says. The Chinese are the only kind, although they demand—and get—forty to fifty dollars more per month than the others. I made a note to employ no more Scotchmen,and then I looked to see what she had to say about sweet-peas.She was ever so enthusiastic about them. No family should be without sweet-peas, she said. You dig a trench, and you put in four or five different kinds of dressing, separated by layers of earth, and then you plant the peas, and as fast as they come up you keep discouraging them by putting more earth and things on top, and then you build a trellis for them to run on, sinking the posts not less than four feet, and there you are.Only—you must mulch them.Mulch! That struck me as a pleasant word. It had a nice squshy sound about it. I thought it would be so nice, on hot evenings, to go around mulching and mulching.I went to the dictionary to look it up and find out what it meant, but just atthat minute General Bumpus came into my office. He was interested to see Mrs. Creasus's book lying open on my desk—he is president of the library board, and he is another gardening enthusiast."Going to have some sweet-peas?" he asked, observing the picture."Yes," I replied, "I thought I would.""Well," he said, "that's all right. Only you must mulch them good and plenty.""Is that necessary?" I inquired, looking him straight in the eye."Oh, yes—absolutely."Before we could say anything more about it, someone came in to tell the general that Mrs. Bumpus said the horses were uneasy, and that she wished he would come out. He went away, and then Miss Davis came to get me—there was a man in the reading-room, who wantedme to give him permission to break some rule or other. So I forgot all about the sweet-peas until I was on my way home. Then I stepped in at the seed shop to get the peas.Philip Morris was there, buying a lawn-mower. He had paid for it, and was starting toward the door, when he saw me."Hullo! Buying sweet-peas?""Yes. Have you ever raised any?""Tried to. One year they didn't come up at all, and another year the cut-worms got 'em, and another they just sort of sickened and died. But I didn't mulch 'em—that was the trouble.""Well, whydidn'tyou mulch 'em?""Why, I would have, but—George! that's my car! Good-night!"And he rushed out.I did not like to display my ignorancebefore the dealer, so I merely took the peas and started up the street with them. Inside of two minutes I met Miss Abernathy. She has a marvelous flower-garden. I stopped her and told her of my purchase."Oh, you're going to have sweet-peas! I envy you. I've never been very successful with them.""What happened to them?""I don't know. They seemed to get disappointed—they need very rich soil.""Maybe," I suggested tentatively, "you didn't mulch 'em.""Oh, that doesn't make any difference.""Doesn't it?""Not a bit."And she bade me good evening, and passed on.When I reached home and had eatendinner, I told Jane that I was going to plant some sweet-peas. I described the process to her. She was very much interested, and offered to help. I dug the trench and put in the peas. I thought some bushes might do instead of Mrs. Creasus's trellis."Now," I said, "all they need is to be mulched.""To be what?" asked Jane."Mulched. You always have to mulch sweet-peas; that is, Mrs. Creasus and General Bumpus, and Philip Morris say so, but Miss Abernathy thinks not.""How do you do it?""Jane, do you mean to say that you do not know how to mulch?""Of course I don't. How do you do it?"I felt in my pocket."Can't you roll me a cigarette? There'ssome paper and tobacco in the house—on my desk."Jane went dutifully away, and when she returned, I lighted the cigarette."There," I said, "they're all mulched—I did it with this hoe.""Isthatwhat it means?"All this happened in April, and now it is August, and the sweet-peas still maintain a somewhat sullen appearance. I wonder if Miss Abernathy was right, after all. Perhaps I did wrong to mulch them,—at least, so savagely.

THE CROWDED HOURTHE 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, thosehorridcards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in theirdreadfulmeshes! 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' ItoldHattie to keep her hands off them books,—well, I'll put it back in my bag—here, young man! youleave 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 tothatdesk."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 meleave 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 onlyonecopy 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'vequiterecovered 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'sveryexclusive, and the tickets are awfully hard to get. I felt sure you'd like to go and take a friend. They are not giving thetickets 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."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 dodgeresponsibility, 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 thatmoment, 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.Iwon'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,youknow!" (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,thenameof it?" (He regards Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! thenameof it! I've clean forgotthat!"(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 tolose 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 willcome 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 putthaton my card, an' here's Minnie's card forthat, an' if you'll just put the eggs in my bag, I'll be all right."

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, thosehorridcards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in theirdreadfulmeshes! 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' ItoldHattie to keep her hands off them books,—well, I'll put it back in my bag—here, young man! youleave 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 tothatdesk."

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 meleave 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 onlyonecopy 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'vequiterecovered 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'sveryexclusive, and the tickets are awfully hard to get. I felt sure you'd like to go and take a friend. They are not giving thetickets 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."

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 dodgeresponsibility, 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 thatmoment, 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.Iwon'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,youknow!" (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,thenameof it?" (He regards Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! thenameof it! I've clean forgotthat!"

(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 tolose 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 willcome 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 putthaton my card, an' here's Minnie's card forthat, an' if you'll just put the eggs in my bag, I'll be all right."

TO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRONTO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRONUncombed, a bit unwashed, with freckled face,And slowly moving jaws—implying gum;A decade's meagre dignity of yearsUpon your head—your only passports these,All unconcerned you enter—Fairyland!For here dwell monstrous Jinn, and great birds flyThrough 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 standAghast, 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 seeKing 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 prowTo 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 glowWhen Paul Jones lights his battle-lanterns here;Muskets shall roar and tomahawks shall flashIn 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.

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 HEDGESBY-WAYS AND HEDGESFernald 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 backnext 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 schemeswere 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 justbrought 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 andsprayed 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 perfunctorysentence 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, andwatching 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 anxiousto 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 wentacross 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 hadmore'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 thelibrary 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 notespecially 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, hadbeen 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."Here, the fact that their feet were on their native heath, the familiar noises of wagons and clanging trolley cars outside, and the hubbub of the gymnasium below, all conspired to make the children a little more restless.Fernald listened to Miss Grant, who sat at the desk with fifteen girls and boysand one or two older persons around her. The older ones were parents or friends who lived in the neighborhood and frequented the library. Miss Grant was discharging the books as they were returned, charging new ones, and incidentally acting as literary adviser and bureau of information."Is this the one you want—'The Halfback'? It hasn't been discharged—who brought this in? Oh, you did—you're returning it? You mustn't take the card out till I have stamped it. And this is the book you want to take?"A voice from the rear of the crowd: "No, 'm, that's mine."Another voice: "'Tain't neither, teacher, it's mine; she promised it to me last Choosday."The first voice: "Oh, you big—I didn't do nothin' of the sort, teacher!"A man, elbowing his way to the front, and relying on the fascinations of his dyed moustache and hat tilted to one side: "Say, jus' gimme this, will yer?"While Miss Grant is charging the book, he leans over her confidentially:"Say, don't you or that other young lady belong to the Order of the Golden Bazoo? Don't yer? Say, that's too bad—we're goin' to have a little dance to-morrer night at the Red Men's hall. We'd be glad to have yer come. Say, you can come anyway—I can get yer in all right Yer can meet me at the drugstore on the corner, here, and I'll—"A small girl with a red tam-o'shanter, interrupting: "Teacher, me an' Minnie Leboskey just took out these books—this is mine—'The Birds' Chris'mas Carol' and this is Minnie's—'Sarter Resortus'an' Minnie has read it hundreds of times, an' she says she don't want it again, an' please, teacher, this here is a kid's book, an' I don't want it, an' will yer give me somethin' for my mother, she says she's read the one you sent her last week, an' can she take the White House Cook Book, too, on the same card?"A tall and very resolute-looking woman, with three books under her arm: "Have you got 'The Leopard's Spots' in this library? I want my son to read it. He has just finished 'The Clansman,' but he has never read 'The Leopard's Spots.'"Miss Grant: "Why, how old is he?"The resolute-looking woman, presenting cherubic-faced urchin: "This is him—he'll be twelve next April."Miss Grant: "I'm sure we have some other books that he'll like better than 'The Leopard's Spots.' That is not achild's book—there is a copy at the central library, but it is not kept in the children's room. Wouldn't you like—"The resolute-looking woman: "No, I wouldn't. I know what I want. I'm his mother, and I guess I know what's what. You needn't try to dictate to me. Have you got it here or haven't you? That's all I want to know. I can't find it over there on those shelves."Miss Grant: "No; we have not."The woman: "All right, then, I'll go somewhere else—for he's goin' to read that book, whether or no."A young lady, an acquaintance of Miss Grant, who thinks she is doing a little slumming: "Oh, Miss Grant, how do you do? I promised that I'd come and help you, you know. How perfectly delightful this is—only some boys on the corner threw snowballs at Jean and he wouldn'tbring the automobile nearer than the next block—he's waiting there now, and he's terribly peeved. Now, what shall I do—shall I sit down here and help you?"A small boy: "Say, teacher, come over here an' make this feller give me my book."Another small boy: "Aw, I ain't got his book."First small boy: "Yes, yer have, too!"The other small boy: "No, I ain't—"His remarks end in a yelp as the elbow of the first boy goes home in his ribs. The two clinch, and fall over a settee, from which they are pulled up and separated by Mr. Fernald. The young lady in search of slumming experiences observes that another small boy is experimenting with a penful of red ink, while Miss Grant's back is turned, to see how far he can flip the ink. The young ladydecides she will go and see if her chauffeur is in any further trouble, and she departs hastily, assuring the librarian that she will return soon. She does not reappear, however.A youth, apparently a butcher's assistant, wearing a blue frock, and carrying a slice of meat (for which some family is indignantly waiting): "Say, miss, my grandmother wanted me to get her a book called—say, it had a funny name, it was 'It Didn't Use to Be,' or something like that. Have you got it?"Miss Grant: "Yes, I think so. You go over to Miss French—the lady across the room there, and ask her to see if 'It Never Can Happen Again' is on the shelves."The youth: "That was it, I knew it was something like that."A severe-looking woman, about thirty-eightyears old: "Good evening. Have you ever read this book?"She exhibits a copy of "Barrack Room Ballads," and does not wait for Miss Grant to reply. "I have not read the whole of it—I only looked into it here and there. It ought not be in any library—it is full of the most disgusting profanity. You ought to know about it, and you ought to withdraw it from the shelves immediately."Katie Finnegan, aged fifteen, leaning heavily on Miss Grant's left shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's left ear: "Teacher, are you goin' to let me walk home with you to-night?"Maggie Burke, aged thirteen, leaning on Miss Grant's right shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's right ear: "Say, Miss Grant, I think your hat is just lovely."A serious-faced man, evidently a workingman in his best clothes: "Haven't you got the Encyclopædia Britannica here? I can't find it on those tables."A girl of twelve: "Teacher, I want Tolstoi's 'Little Women.'"A deeply irritated man: "Look here, I'd like to know what this means! D'ye see this postal? Well, look there: 'Please return Evans's 'A Sailor's Log' which is charged on your card. The fine amounts to twenty cents.' I ain't never had no book outer this place!"Miss Grant: "Perhaps you took it from the central library, or one of the other branches?"The irritated one: "No, I didn't neither. I ain't never had no books outer no library!"His companion, another man, with views on capital and labor: "Aw, it's justone of Carnegie's games to get money out of yer."The irritated man: "Well, he won't get no money outer me."Miss Grant, who has read the name "John Smith" on the other side of the post-card: "Perhaps this came to you by mistake—it was meant for someone else of the same name, maybe."The irritated man: "Well, you can keep it—I don't want it, anyhow."He and his friend depart, much pleased at having baffled Carnegie this time.Miss French, the other librarian, laying a very dirty slip of paper on Miss Grant's desk: "What do you suppose this means? There is a boy waiting for the book, but we haven't anything about shingling—I've looked in the catalogue twice."Miss Grant read the note, which ran: "plees give barer why not shingel thehouse and oblige Mrs. coffey 2795 forth street."Miss Grant: "Oh, yes—just write her a note, will you, Miss French? Tell her we haven't any of Frank Danby's books. She wants 'Let the Roof Fall In,' you know."A small boy: "Have you any books about explosions? Mother says she wants one about the Pan-American explosion."Another small boy: "Haven't you got the Mutt and Jeff book yet? When are you goin' to get it?"A small girl: "Please, can I keep this book on how to bring up parrots till next week?"The janitor of the building: "Closin' time in five minutes, Miss."Two women: "Oh, what's he putting out the lights for? I haven't found a book yet!"

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 backnext 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 schemeswere 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 justbrought 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 andsprayed 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 perfunctorysentence 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, andwatching 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 anxiousto 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 wentacross 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 hadmore'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 thelibrary 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 notespecially 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, hadbeen 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."

Here, the fact that their feet were on their native heath, the familiar noises of wagons and clanging trolley cars outside, and the hubbub of the gymnasium below, all conspired to make the children a little more restless.

Fernald listened to Miss Grant, who sat at the desk with fifteen girls and boysand one or two older persons around her. The older ones were parents or friends who lived in the neighborhood and frequented the library. Miss Grant was discharging the books as they were returned, charging new ones, and incidentally acting as literary adviser and bureau of information.

"Is this the one you want—'The Halfback'? It hasn't been discharged—who brought this in? Oh, you did—you're returning it? You mustn't take the card out till I have stamped it. And this is the book you want to take?"

A voice from the rear of the crowd: "No, 'm, that's mine."

Another voice: "'Tain't neither, teacher, it's mine; she promised it to me last Choosday."

The first voice: "Oh, you big—I didn't do nothin' of the sort, teacher!"

A man, elbowing his way to the front, and relying on the fascinations of his dyed moustache and hat tilted to one side: "Say, jus' gimme this, will yer?"

While Miss Grant is charging the book, he leans over her confidentially:

"Say, don't you or that other young lady belong to the Order of the Golden Bazoo? Don't yer? Say, that's too bad—we're goin' to have a little dance to-morrer night at the Red Men's hall. We'd be glad to have yer come. Say, you can come anyway—I can get yer in all right Yer can meet me at the drugstore on the corner, here, and I'll—"

A small girl with a red tam-o'shanter, interrupting: "Teacher, me an' Minnie Leboskey just took out these books—this is mine—'The Birds' Chris'mas Carol' and this is Minnie's—'Sarter Resortus'an' Minnie has read it hundreds of times, an' she says she don't want it again, an' please, teacher, this here is a kid's book, an' I don't want it, an' will yer give me somethin' for my mother, she says she's read the one you sent her last week, an' can she take the White House Cook Book, too, on the same card?"

A tall and very resolute-looking woman, with three books under her arm: "Have you got 'The Leopard's Spots' in this library? I want my son to read it. He has just finished 'The Clansman,' but he has never read 'The Leopard's Spots.'"

Miss Grant: "Why, how old is he?"

The resolute-looking woman, presenting cherubic-faced urchin: "This is him—he'll be twelve next April."

Miss Grant: "I'm sure we have some other books that he'll like better than 'The Leopard's Spots.' That is not achild's book—there is a copy at the central library, but it is not kept in the children's room. Wouldn't you like—"

The resolute-looking woman: "No, I wouldn't. I know what I want. I'm his mother, and I guess I know what's what. You needn't try to dictate to me. Have you got it here or haven't you? That's all I want to know. I can't find it over there on those shelves."

Miss Grant: "No; we have not."

The woman: "All right, then, I'll go somewhere else—for he's goin' to read that book, whether or no."

A young lady, an acquaintance of Miss Grant, who thinks she is doing a little slumming: "Oh, Miss Grant, how do you do? I promised that I'd come and help you, you know. How perfectly delightful this is—only some boys on the corner threw snowballs at Jean and he wouldn'tbring the automobile nearer than the next block—he's waiting there now, and he's terribly peeved. Now, what shall I do—shall I sit down here and help you?"

A small boy: "Say, teacher, come over here an' make this feller give me my book."

Another small boy: "Aw, I ain't got his book."

First small boy: "Yes, yer have, too!"

The other small boy: "No, I ain't—"

His remarks end in a yelp as the elbow of the first boy goes home in his ribs. The two clinch, and fall over a settee, from which they are pulled up and separated by Mr. Fernald. The young lady in search of slumming experiences observes that another small boy is experimenting with a penful of red ink, while Miss Grant's back is turned, to see how far he can flip the ink. The young ladydecides she will go and see if her chauffeur is in any further trouble, and she departs hastily, assuring the librarian that she will return soon. She does not reappear, however.

A youth, apparently a butcher's assistant, wearing a blue frock, and carrying a slice of meat (for which some family is indignantly waiting): "Say, miss, my grandmother wanted me to get her a book called—say, it had a funny name, it was 'It Didn't Use to Be,' or something like that. Have you got it?"

Miss Grant: "Yes, I think so. You go over to Miss French—the lady across the room there, and ask her to see if 'It Never Can Happen Again' is on the shelves."

The youth: "That was it, I knew it was something like that."

A severe-looking woman, about thirty-eightyears old: "Good evening. Have you ever read this book?"

She exhibits a copy of "Barrack Room Ballads," and does not wait for Miss Grant to reply. "I have not read the whole of it—I only looked into it here and there. It ought not be in any library—it is full of the most disgusting profanity. You ought to know about it, and you ought to withdraw it from the shelves immediately."

Katie Finnegan, aged fifteen, leaning heavily on Miss Grant's left shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's left ear: "Teacher, are you goin' to let me walk home with you to-night?"

Maggie Burke, aged thirteen, leaning on Miss Grant's right shoulder, and whispering into Miss Grant's right ear: "Say, Miss Grant, I think your hat is just lovely."

A serious-faced man, evidently a workingman in his best clothes: "Haven't you got the Encyclopædia Britannica here? I can't find it on those tables."

A girl of twelve: "Teacher, I want Tolstoi's 'Little Women.'"

A deeply irritated man: "Look here, I'd like to know what this means! D'ye see this postal? Well, look there: 'Please return Evans's 'A Sailor's Log' which is charged on your card. The fine amounts to twenty cents.' I ain't never had no book outer this place!"

Miss Grant: "Perhaps you took it from the central library, or one of the other branches?"

The irritated one: "No, I didn't neither. I ain't never had no books outer no library!"

His companion, another man, with views on capital and labor: "Aw, it's justone of Carnegie's games to get money out of yer."

The irritated man: "Well, he won't get no money outer me."

Miss Grant, who has read the name "John Smith" on the other side of the post-card: "Perhaps this came to you by mistake—it was meant for someone else of the same name, maybe."

The irritated man: "Well, you can keep it—I don't want it, anyhow."

He and his friend depart, much pleased at having baffled Carnegie this time.

Miss French, the other librarian, laying a very dirty slip of paper on Miss Grant's desk: "What do you suppose this means? There is a boy waiting for the book, but we haven't anything about shingling—I've looked in the catalogue twice."

Miss Grant read the note, which ran: "plees give barer why not shingel thehouse and oblige Mrs. coffey 2795 forth street."

Miss Grant: "Oh, yes—just write her a note, will you, Miss French? Tell her we haven't any of Frank Danby's books. She wants 'Let the Roof Fall In,' you know."

A small boy: "Have you any books about explosions? Mother says she wants one about the Pan-American explosion."

Another small boy: "Haven't you got the Mutt and Jeff book yet? When are you goin' to get it?"

A small girl: "Please, can I keep this book on how to bring up parrots till next week?"

The janitor of the building: "Closin' time in five minutes, Miss."

Two women: "Oh, what's he putting out the lights for? I haven't found a book yet!"

MULCHMULCHToward spring the books on gardening begin to come into the library, and I look them over with fresh enthusiasm. Mrs. Bunkum is no longer my favorite author in this field, but her sister writers are very dear to my heart.There is Mrs. Reginald Creasus. I seize her latest volume with the eagerness of a child. I like to see the pictures of the new marble bench which she has imported from Pompeii and set up at the end of the Rose Walk. Then she usually has a new sculptured group—a fountain, or some other little trifle by Rodin or St. Gaudens, which looks so well amidst the Japanese iris.After gazing at these illustrations fora while, I go home and observe the red woodshed, and I declare it looks altogether different. It is wonderful how discontented with your lot you can get by reading Mrs. Creasus's books on gardening. Sometimes I think that I am making a mistake in voting the Republican ticket, year after year. Mr. Debs may be right, after all.This year Mrs. Creasus calls her volume "The Simple Garden." From it I gathered that anyone who knows anything at all will not pass the summer without an Abyssinian hibiscus unfolding its lovely blooms somewhere on the place. They are absolutely necessary, in fact. You have to be careful with them—when you plant them, that is. The fertilizer which they require has to be fetched from the island of Ascension. I calculated that by going without food or clothes for two years Icould just about buy and support one of them.I wish Mrs. Creasus would write a book about the complicated garden. I should like to see it.Just as I had bought a garden hose, along came Mrs. Creasus's book, remarking casually that it is well to have the whole garden laid out with underground water-pipes, placed at least six feet below the surface, to avoid frost. Two or three private reservoirs are, of course, an essential. I wonder what Mrs. Creasus keeps in these reservoirs. I suppose it is champagne, but I wouldn't like to ask.Scotch gardeners are going out, she says. The Chinese are the only kind, although they demand—and get—forty to fifty dollars more per month than the others. I made a note to employ no more Scotchmen,and then I looked to see what she had to say about sweet-peas.She was ever so enthusiastic about them. No family should be without sweet-peas, she said. You dig a trench, and you put in four or five different kinds of dressing, separated by layers of earth, and then you plant the peas, and as fast as they come up you keep discouraging them by putting more earth and things on top, and then you build a trellis for them to run on, sinking the posts not less than four feet, and there you are.Only—you must mulch them.Mulch! That struck me as a pleasant word. It had a nice squshy sound about it. I thought it would be so nice, on hot evenings, to go around mulching and mulching.I went to the dictionary to look it up and find out what it meant, but just atthat minute General Bumpus came into my office. He was interested to see Mrs. Creasus's book lying open on my desk—he is president of the library board, and he is another gardening enthusiast."Going to have some sweet-peas?" he asked, observing the picture."Yes," I replied, "I thought I would.""Well," he said, "that's all right. Only you must mulch them good and plenty.""Is that necessary?" I inquired, looking him straight in the eye."Oh, yes—absolutely."Before we could say anything more about it, someone came in to tell the general that Mrs. Bumpus said the horses were uneasy, and that she wished he would come out. He went away, and then Miss Davis came to get me—there was a man in the reading-room, who wantedme to give him permission to break some rule or other. So I forgot all about the sweet-peas until I was on my way home. Then I stepped in at the seed shop to get the peas.Philip Morris was there, buying a lawn-mower. He had paid for it, and was starting toward the door, when he saw me."Hullo! Buying sweet-peas?""Yes. Have you ever raised any?""Tried to. One year they didn't come up at all, and another year the cut-worms got 'em, and another they just sort of sickened and died. But I didn't mulch 'em—that was the trouble.""Well, whydidn'tyou mulch 'em?""Why, I would have, but—George! that's my car! Good-night!"And he rushed out.I did not like to display my ignorancebefore the dealer, so I merely took the peas and started up the street with them. Inside of two minutes I met Miss Abernathy. She has a marvelous flower-garden. I stopped her and told her of my purchase."Oh, you're going to have sweet-peas! I envy you. I've never been very successful with them.""What happened to them?""I don't know. They seemed to get disappointed—they need very rich soil.""Maybe," I suggested tentatively, "you didn't mulch 'em.""Oh, that doesn't make any difference.""Doesn't it?""Not a bit."And she bade me good evening, and passed on.When I reached home and had eatendinner, I told Jane that I was going to plant some sweet-peas. I described the process to her. She was very much interested, and offered to help. I dug the trench and put in the peas. I thought some bushes might do instead of Mrs. Creasus's trellis."Now," I said, "all they need is to be mulched.""To be what?" asked Jane."Mulched. You always have to mulch sweet-peas; that is, Mrs. Creasus and General Bumpus, and Philip Morris say so, but Miss Abernathy thinks not.""How do you do it?""Jane, do you mean to say that you do not know how to mulch?""Of course I don't. How do you do it?"I felt in my pocket."Can't you roll me a cigarette? There'ssome paper and tobacco in the house—on my desk."Jane went dutifully away, and when she returned, I lighted the cigarette."There," I said, "they're all mulched—I did it with this hoe.""Isthatwhat it means?"All this happened in April, and now it is August, and the sweet-peas still maintain a somewhat sullen appearance. I wonder if Miss Abernathy was right, after all. Perhaps I did wrong to mulch them,—at least, so savagely.

MULCH

Toward spring the books on gardening begin to come into the library, and I look them over with fresh enthusiasm. Mrs. Bunkum is no longer my favorite author in this field, but her sister writers are very dear to my heart.

There is Mrs. Reginald Creasus. I seize her latest volume with the eagerness of a child. I like to see the pictures of the new marble bench which she has imported from Pompeii and set up at the end of the Rose Walk. Then she usually has a new sculptured group—a fountain, or some other little trifle by Rodin or St. Gaudens, which looks so well amidst the Japanese iris.

After gazing at these illustrations fora while, I go home and observe the red woodshed, and I declare it looks altogether different. It is wonderful how discontented with your lot you can get by reading Mrs. Creasus's books on gardening. Sometimes I think that I am making a mistake in voting the Republican ticket, year after year. Mr. Debs may be right, after all.

This year Mrs. Creasus calls her volume "The Simple Garden." From it I gathered that anyone who knows anything at all will not pass the summer without an Abyssinian hibiscus unfolding its lovely blooms somewhere on the place. They are absolutely necessary, in fact. You have to be careful with them—when you plant them, that is. The fertilizer which they require has to be fetched from the island of Ascension. I calculated that by going without food or clothes for two years Icould just about buy and support one of them.

I wish Mrs. Creasus would write a book about the complicated garden. I should like to see it.

Just as I had bought a garden hose, along came Mrs. Creasus's book, remarking casually that it is well to have the whole garden laid out with underground water-pipes, placed at least six feet below the surface, to avoid frost. Two or three private reservoirs are, of course, an essential. I wonder what Mrs. Creasus keeps in these reservoirs. I suppose it is champagne, but I wouldn't like to ask.

Scotch gardeners are going out, she says. The Chinese are the only kind, although they demand—and get—forty to fifty dollars more per month than the others. I made a note to employ no more Scotchmen,and then I looked to see what she had to say about sweet-peas.

She was ever so enthusiastic about them. No family should be without sweet-peas, she said. You dig a trench, and you put in four or five different kinds of dressing, separated by layers of earth, and then you plant the peas, and as fast as they come up you keep discouraging them by putting more earth and things on top, and then you build a trellis for them to run on, sinking the posts not less than four feet, and there you are.

Only—you must mulch them.

Mulch! That struck me as a pleasant word. It had a nice squshy sound about it. I thought it would be so nice, on hot evenings, to go around mulching and mulching.

I went to the dictionary to look it up and find out what it meant, but just atthat minute General Bumpus came into my office. He was interested to see Mrs. Creasus's book lying open on my desk—he is president of the library board, and he is another gardening enthusiast.

"Going to have some sweet-peas?" he asked, observing the picture.

"Yes," I replied, "I thought I would."

"Well," he said, "that's all right. Only you must mulch them good and plenty."

"Is that necessary?" I inquired, looking him straight in the eye.

"Oh, yes—absolutely."

Before we could say anything more about it, someone came in to tell the general that Mrs. Bumpus said the horses were uneasy, and that she wished he would come out. He went away, and then Miss Davis came to get me—there was a man in the reading-room, who wantedme to give him permission to break some rule or other. So I forgot all about the sweet-peas until I was on my way home. Then I stepped in at the seed shop to get the peas.

Philip Morris was there, buying a lawn-mower. He had paid for it, and was starting toward the door, when he saw me.

"Hullo! Buying sweet-peas?"

"Yes. Have you ever raised any?"

"Tried to. One year they didn't come up at all, and another year the cut-worms got 'em, and another they just sort of sickened and died. But I didn't mulch 'em—that was the trouble."

"Well, whydidn'tyou mulch 'em?"

"Why, I would have, but—George! that's my car! Good-night!"

And he rushed out.

I did not like to display my ignorancebefore the dealer, so I merely took the peas and started up the street with them. Inside of two minutes I met Miss Abernathy. She has a marvelous flower-garden. I stopped her and told her of my purchase.

"Oh, you're going to have sweet-peas! I envy you. I've never been very successful with them."

"What happened to them?"

"I don't know. They seemed to get disappointed—they need very rich soil."

"Maybe," I suggested tentatively, "you didn't mulch 'em."

"Oh, that doesn't make any difference."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not a bit."

And she bade me good evening, and passed on.

When I reached home and had eatendinner, I told Jane that I was going to plant some sweet-peas. I described the process to her. She was very much interested, and offered to help. I dug the trench and put in the peas. I thought some bushes might do instead of Mrs. Creasus's trellis.

"Now," I said, "all they need is to be mulched."

"To be what?" asked Jane.

"Mulched. You always have to mulch sweet-peas; that is, Mrs. Creasus and General Bumpus, and Philip Morris say so, but Miss Abernathy thinks not."

"How do you do it?"

"Jane, do you mean to say that you do not know how to mulch?"

"Of course I don't. How do you do it?"

I felt in my pocket.

"Can't you roll me a cigarette? There'ssome paper and tobacco in the house—on my desk."

Jane went dutifully away, and when she returned, I lighted the cigarette.

"There," I said, "they're all mulched—I did it with this hoe."

"Isthatwhat it means?"

All this happened in April, and now it is August, and the sweet-peas still maintain a somewhat sullen appearance. I wonder if Miss Abernathy was right, after all. Perhaps I did wrong to mulch them,—at least, so savagely.

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