All Edison's spare time was spent at the library, which to him was a gold-mine. All his mother's books had been sold, stolen or given away.
And ahoy there, all you folks who have books! Do you not know what books are to a child hungry for truth, that has no books?
Of course you do not!
Books to a boy like young Edison are treasures-trove, in which is stored the learning of all great and good and wise who have ever lived.
And the boy has to read, and read for a decade, in order to find that books are not much after all.
When Edison saw the inside of that library and was told he could read any or all of the books, he said, "If you please, Mister, I'll begin here." And he tackled the first shelf, mentally deciding that he would go through the books ten feet at a time.
A little later he bought at an auction fifty volumes of the "North American Review," and moving the books up to his home at Port Huron proceeded to read them.
The war was on—papers sold for ten cents each and business was good.
Edison was making money—and saving it. He only plunged on books.
Over at Mount Clemens, at the Springs, folks congregated, and there young Edison took weekly trips selling papers.