Part 5

With this they went out, and I endeavored to take up my work. Before I could make the slightest progress, however, two more persons entered the alcove. These, to judge from the conversation, were small boys. I had to sit and listen to this chatter:

"What yer got?"

"'Tinkham Brothers' Tide-mill.' What you got?"

"One of Henty's."

"What one?"

"'The Cat of Boobasts.'"

"Aw, that ain't any good. Why didn't yer get 'By England's Aid'?"

"'T warn't in."

"Yes, 't is, too. Jimmy Goodrich just brought it back."

"Well, the teacher won't let yer have it the same day it come in. An' she won't let me give back this one now."

"Aw, you're dead easy! Don't yer know how to work that?"

"No."

"Why, just go down there, an' when she ain't lookin' stick that one you got behind some other books on the shelf. Then go round to that wheel thing near her desk, 'By England's Aid' is on that, an' put it under your arm when she ain't lookin' an' go out quick with it. Then you can come round to-morrer, an' get the other one, an' give it back, an' get your card, an' you can stick back 'By England's Aid' any time. Bring it in under your coat, when you come with it."

"Gee, that's great! Have you ever tried it?"

"Have I? I've had six books at home to once, an' two more on my cards."

"How many cards you got?"

"Two. Ain't you?"

"No, I ain't got but one."

"Didn't they make you take a green card?"

"No; what good are they?"

"They ain't no good, but the teacher makes yer take one. You can get story books on the white card, but the other is for non-fiction."

"What's that?"

"Oh, school books, an' a lot of rotten things like that."

"What do yer want them for?"

"You don't want 'em--excep' a few of 'em. 'The American Boy's Handy Book' is one of 'em. That's all right. Most of 'em are bum. But if you take 'em, it makes a hit with the teacher. They want yer to read 'em. I got a prize last winter for readin' more'n any other feller that comes to the liberry."

"Gee, you must have hated to read all them school books."

"Aw, I didn't read 'em, you mutt. I jus' took 'em home, an' brought 'em back in a day or two. Say, have you ever read any of Alger's?"

"Yup--two of 'em. Eddie Meaghan let me take two of his. You can't get 'em here. I wish you could, though. They're great."

"I know. I tried to get 'em off the teacher down stairs. She said they warn't nice. I says yes they are too, for my brother who's studyin' to be a lawyer read 'em. She said she'd give me some book that was better, an' she give me one called 'Brothers of the Air.'"

"Was it any good?"

"Rotten. But Danny Corrigan, the bootblack, told me about a place, a liberry in back of Schmidt's cigar store where you can get Alger's an' Old Sleuth, and Di'mond Dick, an' Bowery Billy. Gee, the teacher'd have a fit if she sees them--she took one of Old Sleuth's away from Jimmy Goodrich, an' burned it up, an' wrote to his mother about it."

"I'm goin' down to the children's room, now. Do you s'pose I can work that gag now, an' get 'By England's Aid'?"

"Sure. I'll go down, too, an' show yer how."

* * * * *

Whereupon these two nuisances departed. Really it seems amazing that children and frivolous persons should be allowed in libraries. As it was four o'clock now, I did hope to be allowed to study in peace for what remained of the afternoon. But the hope was vain, for inside of five minutes two women came into that alcove, that Cave of the Winds, as I may call it.

They apparently brought some books with them, and they instantly began to discuss them in a manner that drove every idea from my head. There was nothing left for me to do but to record their talk in order to make my complaint perfectly clear to your honorable board. This was the conversation:

"Well, now, this says that Daniel Pingree died at Marblehead in 1703. If that's so, how under the sun, I'd like to know, was he married to Pamela Perkins in 1706?"

"Why, it doesn't say that, does it?"

"Look for yourself. There it is. And who was Pamela Pingree who died in 1689?"

"Oh, she was his great-aunt. I've got her traced all clear enough. Her mother was a Jimson. They lived in the old Jimson homestead in Worcester. Her father was Zachariah Jimson, and he was my ancestor; he was the third cousin of the Earl of Dingleberry. I got into the 'Grand Dames of the Pequot War,' and the 'United Order of American Descendants of Third Cousins of Earls'--both of them, through Zachariah. But that doesn't explain how Molly Bixby, whose mother came over in the Sarah Jane from Bristol, and who settled at Cohasset in 1690, turned up in Philadelphia in 1775 married to an officer in the English army. Then I am nearly distracted about Jabez Whicher. He was an intimate friend of Sir Harry Vane, and I don't see how I can ever get into the 'Descendants of Persons Who Were Acquainted With People Worth While' unless I can find out something about him."

"Are you sure there was such a man?"

"Of course I am. My mother was a Whicher. I have been all through the town history of Tinkleham, where he came from. We have two samplers at home, worked by his great-granddaughter. And I have hunted in the genealogies of the Diddleback family--he married a Diddleback, my grandfather always said, and in the genealogies of the Fritterleys and the Nynkums, because they were the most prominent families of Tinkleham."

"What have you got there?"

"This? Oh, this is the town and court records of Footleboro'--it is only three miles from Tinkleham, you know, and I thought I might find out something about him. Let me see, let me see--gracious, what fine print! There, here are the Whichers, lots of them. Andrew, Benjamin, Charles--why, here he is! Victory at last! 'Whicher, Jabez.' That's the man! Now, page 719. Here we are! What's this--'Site of the Old Pump'? Why, what's the matter with this index? It says page 719 clear enough. And, look here, isn't this page 719?"

"Why, yes, it seems to be. I don't understand. Oh, this is it--that means paragraph 719. Look under that. There you are. What? 'June 2d, 1659, Jabez Whicher was accused before the justices of stealing sundry fowl and swine from several of the townsfolk, and he did plead that he was guilty, and was fined twelve pence, and sentenced to confinement in the jail for one year, and to be branded with the letter T on his right cheek.' Dear me, is that your ancestor?"

"Why no, certainly not; how ridiculous! Another person of the same name, of course."

"But it is a very unusual name."

"Not at all, Whicher is a common name--I mean, that is--I mean--oh, of course this is some one else."

I cannot chronicle their conversation any further. Enough has been given to show you the nature of the annoyances to which I was subjected yesterday. I look to you, gentlemen, for relief.

Yours very truly,

OBADIAH WURZBERGER.

To the Board of Directors of the Blankville Public Library.

Gentlemen: I regret to hear from my colleague, Dr. O. Wurzberger, that you have denied his application for relief in the matter of conversation within the library alcoves. Dr. Wurzberger has been unable to work for over a week on account of the disturbing chatter that goes on in the alcove next to his, and yet you reply that conversation has always been allowed there, and that you do not see your way to forbidding it.

In order to show you that he is not alone in finding this conversation disturbing, I wish to state that I have been intolerably annoyed. I have been trying to work in the alcove on the other side of the one where the talking occurs. The first volume of my Arabic dictionary (on which I have been engaged continuously since 1867) is soon to appear, and I had hoped to devote a few weeks to a final revision. But how much I was able to accomplish to-day, for instance, you may see from this clack and chatter which took place within eight feet of me.

The first to begin, at half-past nine o'clock, were two youths. This is a literal account of what they said:

"When is the exam?"

"September 22d."

"What in thunder are you beginning to grind now for?"

"Why, we are going to start for Squid Cove day after to-morrow, and we always stay till after Labor Day. Of course I shan't do any grinding down there; and then when we get back Pete Brown and I are going to take the car and go up to Lake George for the rest of the month--or till the exam, anyhow."

"So you've only got to-day and to-morrow?"

"That's all."

"Gee! What does the course cover?"

"English literature from Beowulf to the death of Swinburne."

"Know anything about it?"

"Not a damned thing."

"Know who Beowulf was?"

"No,--I thought you were going to put me on to that."

"Well, you know who Swinburne was, don't you?"

"Sure thing; he wrote 'The Blessed Damozel.'"

"Snappy work, old man. You came pretty near it, anyhow. Only, don't put that in the exam. You won't get asked many questions about modern writers, so don't worry over them. Perhaps you'll get one on Tennyson. Don't say he lived in the Craigie House on Brattle street, and wrote 'Evangeline,' will you? Now, we might as well open the book, and take a chance anywhere. Here's Milton. Ever hear of him?"

"John Milton, England's greatest epic poet, was the son of a scrivener. He was born in 1608 in Grub Street, London. He lived there till he was sixteen, so it is possible that his youthful eyes may have beheld Shakspeare, his only superior. He--"

"Well, well! Where did you get all this?"

"Wait a minute. Little did his worthy parents realize that their son was destined to write some of the most charming lyrics, the most powerful sonnets, and the greatest epic in the English language, and to lose his sight in--in--oh! I forget what he lost his sight in. But, say, how is that? Learned it this morning, while I was eating breakfast."

"Marvelous! But what was that about Grub Street? This book says Bread Street."

"Yes, that's right--Bread Street. Knew it was something about grub."

"Well, you better cut all that out about the street. You might get mixed again, and put it Pudding Lane. It doesn't make a hit, anyhow. They would rather have some drool about his influence on literature, or something of that sort. They'll probably ask you to contrast 'L'Allegro' with 'Il Penseroso,' or describe his attitude toward the Presbyterians, or--"

"That's all right--I'm there with the goods. 'L'Allegro' describes the care-free life of the happy man--the philosophy falsely attributed to the followers of Epicurus, which is summed up in the maxim, 'Eat, drink and be merry,' more completely described in the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. 'Il Penseroso,' on the other hand, is the thoughtful, sober student by no means to be confounded with the melancholy man, but, on the other hand--oh, I've got that down cold--I can go on that way for three pages."

"We'll let Milton alone, then. You seem to know everything to be known about him. How are you on Swift, Addison and that crowd? They always give you three or four questions about them."

"I've got to read over what that book says on that period. I am not very sure whether Swift or Defoe wrote the 'Tatler,' and those other things--they're all mixed up in my mind, anyway."

"How about Shakspeare?"

"Oh, yes. No one knows when he was born or died, what he did, or whether he wrote his plays or not."

"You'll get in trouble if you say that. I don't believe you will get any question about him. Here's Jane Austen."

"She was the woman that was married three or four times, and ought to have been two or three other times, wasn't she?"

"No; you've mixed her with someone else. You ought to be able to discuss her style, and compare it with Charlotte Bronte's. They're dippy about Jane out there, so be sure and read her up. And don't fail to express great admiration for Spenser, if you get a chance."

"Was he the fellow who said we were all descended from monkeys?"

"No, no. What are you talking about? He was a poet--time of Shakspeare, or about then. You ought to read some of him. Read some of 'The Shepherd's Calendar' and quote from it. You'll hate it, but it will work a great swipe with the examiner."

"Well, I'll have to go along now. Mighty good of you to put me on to these points."

"Don't mention it."

"Let's see--Swift, Jane Austen and Spenser are the ducks you say I ought to look up?"

"Yes; and Addison and Marlowe. And say, find out something about Wordsworth. They'll ask about his attitude toward the French Revolution, or some damfool thing like that."

"All right, I will. What was his attitude toward it?"

"I don't know. I had it all down fine once--when I took that exam. He liked it or else he didn't, I forget which. But say, you want to know a little about Dryden and Pope, too."

"Dryden and Pope. All right, I got 'em on my list. I'll be able to write three pages about both of 'em before I go to bed. So long!"

"So long!"

* * * * *

They parted; but the alcove was empty only three minutes. It was then occupied by a man and a woman. The woman began the conversation.

"Mrs. Brooks said I certainly ought to consult you, Mr. Wigglesworth. She said your knowledge of local history will be indispensable to us."

"Now, I wonder if I understand you correctly. You and the other ladies of your club wish to give a pageant, illustrating past events in the history of the town?"

"That's it, exactly. Now, we thought it would be so nice if we could have the visit of Lafayette to Blankville, for one thing. I am to be the Marquise de Lafayette, in a Louis Quinze gown and powdered hair."

"Ah, yes. And your husband, I presume, will represent the marquis?"

"Daniel? Oh dear, no. Mr. Jones would never take any interest in it. He is so busy, you know. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette."

"I see. Dr. Peabody will be Lafayette. I suppose, of course, that you wish to carry out the pageant with due regard for historical accuracy, correctness of costume, and all that sort of thing?"

"Oh, yes. Certainly! That is what will make it so charming, and interesting, and picturesque, and er--er--educational. Dr. Peabody has picked out his costume already. He has spent hours over it. It is all white satin, high-heeled shoes, a jeweled sword, and a powdered wig. We thought we would represent the ball given to the marquis and marchioness by the leading citizens of the town. Then we could have a minuet, you know. Dr. Peabody dances so beautifully."

"Ah, yes. I see only one objection to this. From the point of view of historical truth, I mean. Lafayette did not visit Blankville on his first sojourn in this country."

"Oh, would that make any difference?"

"Well, it would, rather."

"I don't see why."

"Well, for one thing, when he did come here he was an old man. He was about old enough to be Dr. Peabody's grandfather, I should judge."

"Oh!"

"Furthermore, there was no ball given by the leading citizens, and no minuet."

"But there must have been something!"

"There was. The selectmen gathered at the post-house and presented an address of welcome."

"Well, why couldn't we have that?"

"Undoubtedly you could. But it occurred at about nine o'clock on a rainy night. Lafayette did not alight from his coach, for he was trying to get on to Fairfield that night. He was suffering from a headache, and not only had on a nightcap, but had his head swathed in flannel bandages as well. He merely put out his head for a moment from the coach window, took the address, thanked the selectmen and immediately retired from view. There is no doubt at all about this, for Abner Willcox, the first historian of Blankville, was one of the selectmen."

"I don't see how we could have that very well."

"It is possible that you could persuade Dr. Peabody to appear in a nightcap and flannel bandages, but from what I know of the young man I should think it extremely doubtful."

"Well, it would not be picturesque!"

"Possibly not; but it would be historically correct, which is even better."

"I do not think so. I do not believe that a pageant should follow the facts of history slavishly. The object is to reproduce in a beautiful manner the events of the past."

"Exactly so, Mrs. Jones. I have no objection to the beauty of the spectacle, but if the Historical Association, whose president and representative I am, are to contribute toward the pageant, I must insist upon some regard for historical truth."

"Well, what could we have? Are there not some events that would be suitable? Did not General Washington and Mrs. Washington visit our town?"

"They did not. They seem to have overlooked it."

"Was there never an Indian raid?"

"Yes; there was. In 1641."

"How would that do?"

"I will leave you to judge. The Indians--there were three of them--were all intoxicated. They endeavored to steal a horse, but were discovered by a servant girl of one Enoch Winslow, who owned the horse. She locked them up in the barn until the constable could come and take them to the village jail."

"It does not sound very dramatic."

"I am no judge of what is or is not dramatic, Mrs. Jones. I merely give you the facts. Possibly you might like to represent the landing of the first settlers."

"Yes; that sounds delightful."

"It was not a delightful occasion for the settlers. It is a matter of record that on landing they were instantly attacked by mosquitoes in such large numbers that they had to beat a hasty retreat to their ship."

"Perhaps we could have that and leave out the mosquitoes,--it would be hard to have them, anyway."

"That would be impossible, madam. The modern school of history, of which I am a follower, allows the omission of no detail which makes for accuracy. Perhaps you would not be able to introduce the mosquitoes, though it might be managed. If not, I should insist that the persons representing the settlers beat their arms and hands about, and retreat to the vessel in evident distress."

"It does seem hard to find anything. I must go now. I hope you will think it over, Mr. Wigglesworth. Good morning."

* * * * *

These, gentlemen of the board, were the annoyances I suffered to-day. Can you do nothing to remedy this state of things?

Respectfully yours,

NICHOLAS JASPER, Ph.D.

THE LITERARY ZOO

THE LITERARY ZOO

"The idea is not exactly original," I complained.

"Perhaps not," Mr. Gooch replied, "at least, perhaps it isn't wholly original in a general sense. Still, disregarding what private collectors may have done, I am sure this is the first public library to establish a literary-zoölogical annex on so extensive a scale. We aim at nothing less than completeness."

"Oh! that is what you call it--a literary-zoölogical annex? I thought I had heard it called a literary zoo."

"We think the other name a little more dignified. That is what it will be termed on the invitations. Let me see; I believe I sent you an advance invitation? They are not to be issued till next Monday."

He had sent me one, and I took it from my pocket and read it over again.

"The Public Library of East Caraway," it said, "requests the honor of your presence at the opening of its Literary-Zoölogical Annex, Thursday, September 1st, at ten o'clock A.M."

"We have to set that hour," Mr. Gooch explained, "because the animals are so much brighter then. In the afternoon they get sleepy, and at four o'clock, which is feeding time, they are noisy and quarrelsome. But come, we will go and inspect them."

He rose and led the way out of his office. We went through the delivery room, where a dozen or twenty people were waiting for books, and out through the stacks to the door of the big wooden annex. Mr. Gooch drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and unfastened the padlock.

"Of course you understand," said he, as he pushed back the heavy doors, "there are still very many empty cages. Our collection is about one-fifth what we hope to have in two years. It is slow work, and most of the specimens are obtained only after long research and difficult negotiation. Some owners of the most desirable animals hold them at prices absolutely prohibitive to a library like ours. I could tell you of haggling and bargaining that we have done! Well, you would never believe, for instance, what the owner of the horse who brought the news from Ghent to Aix wants for him, and as for Circe's swine--there are only two of them extant now--they might be made of pure gold, those pigs! But we have enough animals to make a respectable showing on opening day, I think, and I believe the collection will be decidedly educational in its effects."

Mr. Gooch has a firmer trust in the educational value of many things than I have been able to share, but I looked forward with great interest to this first view of his animals.

"This section is devoted to birds," said Mr. Gooch; "that swan floating around on the pool is the one who was once an ugly duckling; the cockatoo on the perch belonged to Count Fosco; and the red bird is, of course, the Kentucky Cardinal.

"One moment," I interposed, "how do you classify your animals? Not by authors, I take it?"

Mr. Gooch looked a little embarrassed. "Well, no," he admitted; "it was a very painful thing, for as a librarian I naturally wished to do everything according to library methods. But it was absolutely impossible. We tried it, and we had some harrowing experiences."

Mr. Gooch wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

"The Kipling section was a perfect pandemonium in no time," he went on, "there was a terrific battle between the tiger and one of the elephants. I thought the whole place would be torn to pieces. We got them separated somehow, and we saw then that it would be utterly impossible to classify by authors. In some cases it might be done, but we had to stick to one system or another, so we adopted the usual methods of the zoölogical museums--the birds by themselves, the carnivora together, and so on. It is hardly scholarly, I know, but we had to do it."

I could not deny that he had acted for the best. By way of changing the subject I asked him about a small bird of inconspicuous appearance.

"It is the nightingale that inspired John Keats," he replied, "he sings sometimes, on moonlit nights. I can tell you, however, that the Ode is better than his song. The raven, sitting there on the pallid bust of Pallas, you will recognize without any difficulty. This other raven--"

"Belonged to Barnaby Rudge, I suppose?"

"No, _he_ is owned by a private collector. This one flew and croaked ahead of Queen Guinevere, when she fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, and heard the spirits of the waste and weald moan as she fled. Our ravens are not very cheerful birds. The other large, black bird is Solomon Caw, who lived in Kensington Gardens. There at the edge of the pool stands the Caliph Stork."

"And this hen?" I asked.

"That is Em'ly, who was once the object of attention from a Virginian. The other is the Little Red Hin."

"You will be able to make an addition to your poultry soon," I remarked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, one Chantecler."

"Will we? I don't know. We don't go in for every animal that becomes notorious through advertising. Do you recognize the canary?"

"Little Nell's?"

"No, this one hung in the cabin of the brig Flying Scud. Here are the dogs--well penned, you see--I didn't intend that outrageous pun--because some of them are dangerous. This is Wolf, who once belonged to Rip Van Winkle. Many persons have the impression that his name is Snider. The bloodhound is one of those which pursued Eliza across the ice. There are many impostors, but our specimen is undoubtedly genuine."

"And the stuffed bloodhound?" I inquired.

"He was shot with a bottle of Daffy's Elixir by Micah Clarke. The other stuffed dog, that gigantic black one, is--"

"The Hound of the Baskervilles, of course!" I interrupted.