Part 7

Chapter 74,232 wordsPublic domain

(Scene: The Circulating Department of the----Public Library. Time: Four o'clock of a Saturday afternoon in the winter. Miss Randlett and Miss Vanderpyl, library assistants, are taking in books returned, and issuing others to a group of persons, varying in number from ten to fifty. The group includes men and women, youths and maidens,--a number of high-school students being conspicuous. Edgar, Alfred, and Dan--library pages--going forward and back from the desk to the book-stack, fetching books called for. Sometimes they bring only the call-slips with the word "OUT" stamped thereon. A sign on the desk bears the inscription: "Please look up the call numbers of any books that you wish in the card catalogue. Write the numbers on a call-slip, and present the slip at this desk." About fifty per cent of the people pay no attention whatever to the sign.)

A small man in a large ulster, addressing Miss Vanderpyl, in honeyed tones: "Oh, pardon me! Have you 'The Blandishments of Belinda' in this library?"

Miss V. (working with both hands at once, charging books, and trying to keep thirty-seven people from becoming impatient): "Er--I--am not sure. Who is the author?"

The small man (bowing gracefully, with the tips of his fingers on his heart): "I, who now address you, Madam."

Miss V. (after wondering vainly what light this answer throws on her difficulty, and seeking for a reply which shall not seem impertinent): "I really am not sure,--probably we have it. Would you mind looking it up in the catalogue, please?"

The small man: "I beg pardon?"

Miss V. (indicating): "In the catalogue,--over there."

The small man: "Oh, those _horrid_ cards? Dear me! I would never think of entangling myself in their _dreadful_ meshes! I fear I might never survive it, you know. Is there no other way? Ah, red tape! red tape!"

(He hovers about for an instant, and then flits away.)

A very large woman, with an armful of bundles (depositing six books on the desk with a crash, and heaving a sigh that scatters the call-slips and memoranda right and left): "_There!_ If my arms ain't nearly fallin' off! Say, you oughta give shawlstraps to carry these books with. Now, here's 'The Life Beautiful,'--I wanta return that, and 'The Romance of Two Worlds' an' 'Cometh up as a Flower,'--why, no, it ain't either,--it's 'Family Hymns'--if I ain't gone and picked that up off the settin'-room table and lugged it all this way, an' I _told_ Hattie to keep her hands off them books,--well, I'll put it back in my bag--here, young man! you leave that alone--that don't belong to the liberry. Now, here's this, an' this, an' I want this swapped onto this card, an' this one I want renood an' I wanta get 'Airy, Fairy Lilian' an'--oh, Lord! there goes my macaroni onto the floor,--all smashed to smithereens, I s'pose--no, 't ain't, either,--thank you, young man! Now, if you'll just--"

A high school student: "Can I get a copy of 'The Merchant of Venice,' the Rolfe edition?"

The very large woman: "Now, just you wait a minute, young feller! One at a time, here!"

Miss V. (at last making herself heard): "These books which you want to return should go over to _that_ desk."

The very large woman: "What? Oh, Lord, I forgot! That's so, ain't it? Well, I'll take 'em over, but say, jus' let me leave my bundles here a minute--I'll be right back."

(She departs, leaving a package of macaroni, two dozen eggs, and a black string bag to help cover the already crowded desk.)

An old gentleman (holding a call-slip in both hands, and looking at Miss V. over his eye-glasses): "This says that President Lowell's book on the government of England is 'out.' Do you mean to say that you own only _one_ copy of such an important work?"

Edgar: "No, sir, we got two, but they're all out."

The old gentleman: "Well, two, then! Why, I daresay you have half a dozen of some trashy novel or other. Why, do you know that the author is President of Harvard University?"

Edgar (quite cheerfully): "No, sir."

The old gentleman: "Well, he is! Your librarian ought to be told of this. Where is he? I shall enter a complaint."

A woman with poppies on her hat: "How do you do, Miss Vanderpyl? You're looking so well! You've _quite_ recovered from that dreadful illness you had last fall? I'm so glad! Now, I've brought you something."

(She extends an envelope, which Miss V., who has a book in one hand, and a combination pencil and dating-stamp in the other, takes between the last two fingers of her right hand.)

The woman with poppies: "Those are two tickets for the reception that is going to be given this evening by the Grand Dames of the Pequot War. It's _very_ exclusive, and the tickets are awfully hard to get. I felt sure you'd like to go and take a friend. They are not giving the tickets away to everyone, I can assure you. Oh, isn't that 'The Long Roll' over there on that desk? I do so want to read that, and they say there isn't a single copy in, except that one. You'll just let me take it, won't you?"

Miss V.: "Why, I'm awfully sorry! That copy is reserved for someone,--she paid for the post-card notice, you know, and we've written her that the book is here. I'm very sorry!"

The woman with poppies: "Oh, is that so?"

(She reaches over, and deftly withdraws the envelope from Miss V.'s fingers, and replaces it in her card-case. Then she speaks again:)

"I am so sorry. Perhaps you won't be able to go to the reception this evening, anyhow. Good afternoon, Miss Vanderpyl, good afternoon."

(And she goes out, smiling sweetly.)

Two high-school students, at once: "Can I get 'The Merchant of Venice' in the Rolfe edition?"

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 dodge responsibility, I guess. It makes me sick the way these libraries are run." (Addressing the public generally:) "What right have these library people,--paid public servants, public employees, that's all they are--what right have they to dictate what I shall read? Why, her novels are reviewed in all the best papers on the other side."

A voice from the rear of the crowd: "Why don't you do something about it?"

The man: "Well, I'm going to, by George!"

(He goes away, muttering.)

The woman with the child (returning triumphant): "Ha! I haf her! Here she iss!"

(She extends the catalogue card, which she has ripped forcibly from its drawer. Miss Wilkins, head cataloguer of the library, who happens to be passing at that moment, sees the incident, and sits down suddenly on a bench, and has recourse to smelling salts.)

An imposing personage (who has stalked out from the reference room bearing a Spanish dictionary, and is followed excitedly by Miss Barnard, the reference librarian): "I want to borrow this dictionary until next Tuesday, and that woman in there says I can't, just because it says 'Ref.' on it. _I_ won't hurt it!"

Miss V.: "Those books are not allowed to go out of the library."

The personage: "Why not?"

Miss V.: "They are reference books,--they are to be used in that room only."

The personage: "Who made that rule?"

Miss V.: "The trustees, I suppose,--it is one of the rules of the library."

The personage: "Well, I know Colonel Schwartz!"

Miss V.: "Well, if you will get his permission, you may take the book,--I am not allowed to give it out."

(The personage lays the book on the desk, from which it is quickly recovered by Miss Barnard, who hastens back to the reference room with it.)

The personage: "I've got to get something like that,--I had a letter from Havana this morning, and I want to find out what it means."

Miss V.: "Oh, we have some books which will do for that, I think." (To Alfred, the page.) "Get one of those Spanish grammars, Alfred,--be sure and see that there's a vocabulary in it."

(Alfred returns presently with a grammar. Miss V. extends her hand for the personage's library card. The personage looks at her helplessly, and finally shakes hands with her, remarking: "Oh, that's all right, miss,--don't mention it!")

Miss V. (becoming rather red): "Your card?"

The personage (mystified): "Card?"

Miss V.: "Yes, your library card,--haven't you one?"

The personage: "You can search me!"

Miss V.: "Why, I can't give you a book unless you have a card,--haven't you ever borrowed books from the library?"

The personage: "Never in my life." (Suddenly exploding.) "Great Scott! I never saw so much red tape in my life."

Miss V.: "Well, here--"

(And she breaks a library rule herself, by getting the name and address of the personage, and giving him the book, charged on her own card. But she gets rid of him at last.)

A man, with a confidential manner (leaning over the desk, and whispering): "Say, lady, I want to get a book."

Miss V.: "What book do you want?"

The confidential man (pursing up his lips, and nodding his head, as if to tip her the wink): "Why,--er, why,--_that same one_, yer know!"

(Miss V. looks at him carefully, but as she cannot distinguish him amongst the forty thousand persons who have entered the library during the past year, she is forced to make further inquiries.)

Miss V.: "Which same one? I don't remember--"

The confidential man: "Why, _you_ know!" (His manner indicates that it is a delicate personal secret between Miss V. and himself.) "That one I had last summer, yer know."

Miss V.: "What was the title?"

The confidential man: "The title?--Oh, the _name_ of it?" (He regards Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! the _name_ of it! I've clean forgot _that_!"

(Having thus brushed aside her trivial question, he regards the ceiling and awaits the arrival of the book.)

Miss V.: "Who was the author--who wrote it?"

(The confidential man is now convinced that Miss V., for some playful reason of her own, is merely trying to keep him at the desk,--that she has the book within reach, but chooses to be kittenish about it. He smiles pleasantly at her.)

The confidential man: "Lord, I dunno!--Just let me have it, will yer?" (He is still quite agreeable--as if he were saying: "Come, come, young lady, I know it's very nice to string out this conversation, but, after all, business is business! Let me have my book, for I must be going.")

Miss V.: "I'm afraid I can't give it to you unless you can tell me something more about it,--something definite. We have over four hundred thousand books in this library, you know, and if you don't recall the author or the title--"

(The confidential man receives the news about the four hundred thousand books with the air of a person listening to a fairy tale. The idea that there are as many books as that in the whole world, to say nothing of one library, strikes him as it would if Miss V. should tell him that she is the rightful Queen of England.)

Miss V.: "Can't you tell me about the book,--what it was about, I mean?"

The confidential man (beginning to lose his patience, at last): "_About?_ Why, it was about a lot of things!"

Miss V.: "Was it fiction--a novel?"

The confidential man: "Huh?"

Miss V.: "Was it a story? or a book of travels--"

(The confidential man gazes at her with oystery eyes. Suddenly he becomes more animated.)

The confidential man: "There! It looked just like that!"

(He points across the desk at a novel bound in the uniform style of the library bindery, from which six thousand volumes, bound precisely alike, come every year.)

Miss V.: "Is that it?" (She hands him the book.)

The confidential man: "No, no. Oh, no. Nothin' like it." (He puts it down, and wanders away, thinking that he will come back when there is some intelligent attendant at the desk.)

An excited person: "Look here, I've been reading those names on the ceiling, and Longfellow's isn't there! Now, I'd like to know why that is!"

Another man: "And they haven't got 'The Appeal to Reason' in the reading room."

Another man: "That's because it's Carnegie's library, ain't it, miss?"

Miss V.: "No,--he has nothing to do with the library at all."

The man: "Why, I thought he run it, don't he?"

Miss V.: "He gave the money for the building,--that is all. He has never been in it, nor seen it, so far as I know."

The man: "That's all right! I guess you'll find he runs it, just the same."

The first man: "I guess so, too."

Miss V.: "It must keep him rather busy, don't you think, running all his libraries?"

The man: "Oh, he can have people in his pay, all right."

(He and his friend gaze about, to see if they can detect any of these secret agents. They both look suspiciously toward Miss Randlett at the return desk.)

The very large woman (who has returned to gather up her macaroni, her two dozen eggs, and her black bag, and to have her books charged): "Now, here I am at last! I couldn't get 'Airy, Fairy Lilian,' but here's 'She Walks in Beauty,' an' 'Miss Petticoats,' an' you can put _that_ on my card, an' here's Minnie's card for _that_, an' if you'll just put the eggs in my bag, I'll be all right."

TO A SMALL LIBRARY PATRON

Uncombed, a bit unwashed, with freckled face, And slowly moving jaws--implying gum; A decade's meagre dignity of years Upon your head--your only passports these, All unconcerned you enter--Fairyland!

For here dwell monstrous Jinn, and great birds fly Through haunted valleys sown with diamonds. Here Rumpelstiltskin hides his secret name, The talking Flounder comes at beck and call, The King of Lilliput reviews his troops, The Jabberwock and Bandersnatch cavort, And mice and pumpkin change to coach and four.

Once more for you is Sherwood's forest green, Where arrows hiss and sword and shield resound; Within these walls shall you and Crusoe stand Aghast, to see the footprint on the beach; From here you start your journey to the Moon, Cruise on the raft with Huckleberry Finn, Or sentinel the mouth of Cudjo's Cave.

Here, when your years have doubled, shall you see King Henry and his men on Crispin's Day, The Scottish thane hold parley with the hags, Sir Richard Grenville fight the Spanish fleet, Great Hector and Achilles face to face! This is your Palos whence you turn your prow To sail uncharted seas and find strange isles. Here shall you stand with brave Leonidas; Here watch old Davy Crockett fight and fall. Amid these dusty shelves you'll see the glow When Paul Jones lights his battle-lanterns here; Muskets shall roar and tomahawks shall flash In many deep and dismal forest glades. Here shall you see the Guillotine at work! And mark the Sun of Austerlitz arise. Again, you'll bide the Redcoats on the Hill, Or watch the fight on Cemetery Ridge.

But you--with towsled hair and stockings torn, Irreverent and calm and unabashed, Intent on swiping Billy Johnson's cap-- You pass the magic portal unaware, And, careless, saunter into lands of gold.

BY-WAYS AND HEDGES

Fernald got off the trolley car and looked about for Graham House. He did not have to look long, for on the steps of a brick building there were thirty to fifty children waiting for the settlement library to open. That event ought to happen at seven o'clock, and the illuminated dial on the fire engine house, across the street, now indicated five minutes of seven. Fernald went up the steps, through the crowd, and turned to the right into the library room. There was a confusion of noises--two or three nervous giggles and snickers, a loud shuffling of feet, and a few articulate questions.

"Where's the teacher?"

"Ain't the teacher comin'?"

"Mister, you ain't got the lady's job away from her, have yer?"

And then, apparently in derogation of the last inquiry: "Shut up, you!"

Fernald took off his coat and left it on a bench. Then he unlocked the bookcases, which were instantly surrounded by a hungry swarm. He took the boxes of card records from a shelf, and established himself with rubber stamp, pencil, and pen at the smaller table. A few children already sat about the larger table, looking at the worn copies of "Puck" and "Collier's." A freckled-faced girl, about twelve years old, came behind the table and whispered confidentially into his ear:

"Ain't the real teacher comin', Mister?"

"Yes," explained Fernald, "she is coming in about half an hour. You can get your books from me until she comes."

"Oh!"

There was deep, Christian resignation in the tone, and Fernald felt the rebuke. At the main library he was superior in station to the "real teacher," but here his evident inferiority was painful. But he had no time to dwell on it, for there were at least seventeen children, both boys and girls, from ten to sixteen years old standing about him on three sides, and all holding one or two books toward him. He tried to remember Miss Grant's (the "real teacher's") final instructions.

"Five cents a week on all books which have been kept out longer than two weeks. Don't give back any cards which have 'Fine due' stamped on them. If any of them ask for new cards, give them a guarantor's slip, tell them to fill it out, get it signed by some grown person whose name is in the directory, and bring it back next week. Look out for Minnie Leboskey, she owes fifteen cents and will try to get her card back. Don't lose your temper with them--they all behave pretty well, but if any of the boys throw snowballs in at the top of the window get Mr. Flaherty, the janitor, to drive them away."

He looked into the numerous faces, wondering if the nefarious Minnie Leboskey were there. In the meanwhile he was mechanically taking in the books, stamping the cards, and handing them back. He noticed that his fingers grew very sticky in the process. Most of the children brought another book to the desk with the one they were returning. This was one they had already selected from the shelves, and they now desired to exchange it for the books they handed in. Sometimes their preconcerted schemes were confusing to the substitute librarian, as when, for instance:

Theresa Sullivan returned two books, one of which was to be re-issued immediately to Margaret Clancy, while the other was to be charged on the card of Nora Clancy, who was sick with ammonia and so couldn't come to the library that evening. But the book which Margaret returned must be loaned to Theresa--that is, one of them must be, while the other was to be given into the keeping of Mary Finnegan, who, in her turn, brought back three books (two on her own cards, and one on her mother's), and her mother wanted the book that Eustacia O'Brien had returned (there it is, right on the desk in front of you--that's Eustacia over there at the water-cooler), and please, Mary Finnegan herself wants this book that Mary Divver has just brought in on her white card, and on her blue card she wants the one she is going to get (if sundry elbow jabs in the ribs will have any effect) from Agnes Casey, and that ain't nothin' on the cover except a teeny little piece of tolu gum, and Nellie Sullivan wants to know if "Little Women" is in, and if it isn't will you please pick something out for her, Mister, 'cause she has tried four times to get "Little Women," and please give me this book that Lizzie Brady has just brought in on my white card, and this is my blue card, and my father says that this book on electric door-knobs ain't no good and he wants another.

After twenty uninterrupted minutes of this sort of thing Fernald (who had once pitched for his class nine and stood calm while the sophomores exploded bunches of cannon crackers around him and sprayed him with a garden hose) felt inclined to jump up and roar:

"For God's sake, hold your tongues!"

He did nothing of the sort, however, for at that moment a scuffle broke out at the bookcase between two boys. He left his table long enough to separate the boys and tell them to stop fighting or he would put them out.

He couldn't help remembering Miss Grant and her associate, Miss French, who, after eight hours in the main library during the day, came over here each Thursday evening for the mere love of it.

The chief librarian had visited the place once--a year ago, coming at half-past eight, when all was orderly and quiet. He looked blandly around for a few moments and then went away. A few weeks later he included in his annual report a perfunctory sentence about the faithful service of the two young women.

Miss Grant came at about half-past seven, and Fernald turned the desk over to her.

"I wish you would get that red-haired girl a 'sad book,'" he remarked; "she has been after me ever since I arrived for a 'sad book.' Have you anything sufficiently mournful?"

Miss Grant thought she could supply the need, but Fernald did not learn what the book was, for, as she came back from the shelves, she remarked:

"I am afraid that boy needs watching. He comes here only for mischief--never takes any books."

She indicated a tall, lank youth of unpleasant countenance, and about fifteen years old. He was sitting at the center table, moving the magazines about, and watching the librarians out of the corners of his eyes.

"Have you had trouble with him before?" asked Fernald.

"Oh, yes," said Miss Grant, "he tripped me up last Thursday night."

"_What?_ Tripped you up?"

"Yes--stuck out his foot as I went by the table with an armful of books. I fell and spilled the books all over the floor."

"Why, the young pup! Shall I put him out?"

"No; he hasn't done anything to-night."

At this moment the boy seized a magazine and rapidly slapped three smaller boys over the head with it. One of the little boys began to cry, and Mr. Fernald, remarking, "I guess that will do, won't it?" conducted the perpetrator of the offence to the outer door.

As soon as he felt the grip on his collar relax, the boy ran to the middle of the street, and armed himself, not with the gentle snowball, but with four or five of the hard lumps of ice which, mingled with dirt and gravel, covered the street.