The Young Train Dispatcher

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

But Allan interrupted him with a shake of the head.

“No,” he said; “it’s not the same. You’re his nephew and have a claim upon him—besides, you’re going to take his son’s place. I haven’t any claim.”

And Jim, looking at him, decided to say no more about it.

“But I’ll come over and visit you,” Allan promised, “the first vacation I get.”

So a few evenings later, he saw Jim and Mrs. Anderson off on their way to Philadelphia, and then walked slowly homeward, a very lonely boy.

Now that his evenings were again his own, he spent many of them at the Wadsworth Public Library, and also bought some carefully selected books of his own—which is about the best investment any boy can make. Every boy ought to have for his very own the books which he likes best, and these should be added to every year, as the boy’s taste changes and matures, so that his library will come to be a sort of index of his growth and development. Not many books, but loved ones, should be the motto.

Allan had, in his common-school education, a splendid foundation on which to build, and on this he reared a beautiful and noble edifice—an edifice which any boy who wishes can rear for himself—of acquaintance with the best books. This house of the imagination, with its lofty halls and great rooms, and gilded towers, was empty enough at first, but it soon became peopled with most engaging friends,—among them John Halifax, Tom Pinch, John Ridd, David Copperfield, D’Artagnan and his three comrades, Henry Esmond, Amyas Leigh, and that sweetest, bravest of all maidens, Lorna Doone. He accompanied great travellers to far countries; he fought with Richard Lion Heart against Saladin, with Napoleon against Wellington; with Washington against Howe and Clinton and Cornwallis. He read of the gallant Bayard, fearless and without reproach, of King Arthur and his knights, and something of the beauty and romance of chivalry entered into his own soul. In a word, he was gaining for himself a priceless possession—a possession worth more to its owner than gold, or silver, or precious stones; a continual delight and never-failing comfort—a knowledge of good books.

The librarian advised him as to the best editions to buy for his own use, and he soon found that nearly all the great books were published in little volumes to be slipped easily into the pocket, and costing not more than fifty or sixty cents each. It was these little volumes which he grew especially to love—they were so companionable, so pretty, and yet so strong and serviceable. He got into the habit of putting one into his pocket every morning. He could read it on the train, going out and returning, and during the day in such odd times as his work permitted. It is wonderful how much one can accomplish in the way of reading by watching the spare moments; Allan realized, as he had never done before, how much of every day he had wasted. The time that had been lost was lost for ever; but the present and the future were his, and he determined to make the most of them.

No one can associate with wise and witty and gallant people, even in books, without showing the effects of it. Some of their wisdom and wit and gallantry, be it never so little, passes to the reader; he learns to look at the world and the people in it with more discerning eyes; life gains a larger meaning; it becomes more full of colour and interest. The result, in the end, is what, for want of a better word, we call culture; a word meaning originally the tilling and cultivating of the ground, and afterwards coming to be applied to the tilling and cultivating of the mind. Its most valuable result is the acquirement of what we call taste—another clumsy word and inexpressive, by which we mean the power to discern and to enjoy the right things—good literature, good music, good pictures—and to know and to reject the wrong things.