The Old Books.
The old books, the old books, the books of long ago!
Who ever felt Miss Austen tame, or called Sir Walter slow?
We did not care the worst to hear of human sty or den;
We liked to love a little bit, and trust our fellow-men.
The old books, the old books, as pure as summer breeze!
We read them under garden boughs, by fire-light on our knees,
They did not teach, they did not preach, or scold us into good;
A noble spirit from them breathed, the rest was understood.
The old books, the old books, the mother loves them best;
They leave no bitter taste behind to haunt the youthful breast:
They bid us hope, they bid us fill our hearts with visions fair;
They do not paralyze the will with problems of despair.
And as they lift from sloth and sense to follow loftier planes,
And stir the blood of indolence to bubble in the veins:
Inheritors of mighty things, who own a lineage high,
We feel within us budding wings that long to reach the sky:
To rise above the commonplace, and through the cloud to soar,
And join the loftier company of grander souls of yore.
The Spectator.
CHAPTER 25.
Humors of the Library.[3]
Some Thoughts on Classification.
By Librarian F. M. Crunden.
Classification is vexation,
Shelf-numbering is as bad;
The rule of D
Doth puzzle me;
Mnemonics drives me mad.
Air—The Lord Chancellor's Song. When first I became a librarian,
Says I to myself, says I,
I'll learn all their systems as fast as I can,
Says I to myself, says I;
The Cutter, the Dewey, the Schwartz, and the Poole,
The alphabet, numeral, mnemonic rule,
The old, and the new, and the eclectic school,
Says I to myself, says I.
Class-numbers, shelf-numbers, book-numbers, too,
Says I to myself, says I,
I'll study them all, and I'll learn them clear thro',
Says I to myself, says I;
I'll find what is good, and what's better and best,
And I'll put two or three to a practical test;
And then—if I've time—I'll take a short rest,
Says I to myself, says I.