Thomas Bulfinch
Below was a verse of poetry in very fine print; she read it mechanically.
O, ye delicious fables! where the wave
And woods were peopled, and the air, with things
So lovely! why, ah! why has science grave
Scattered afar your sweet imaginings?
Barry Cornwall.
It flashed into her mind that an absolutely shameless subscriber had retained Miss Proctor's collected poems for three weeks now, and she made a hasty note of the fact on a small pad that hung from her belt. Then she set the Age of Fable in its place and went on about her work, the incident dismissed.
The next afternoon as she was sorting out from the department labelled, "Poetry, Miscellaneous Matter, etc.," such books as Mr. Littlejohn had found himself unable or unwilling to classify further, shaking down much dust on the further side of the shelves in the process, she was startled by a faint sneeze. Her assistant was compiling a list of fines at the desk, and this sneeze came from her very elbow, it seemed, so she hastily dismounted from her little ladder and peered around the rack. There sat the little boy of yesterday, the same brown book spread across his knees. She looked severe.
"Is this Jimmy Reese?" she inquired stiffly.