“And do people have to pay to take out the books?”
“Not likely!” said Howard with fine contempt. “You wouldn’t expect people to pay for reading books; would you, now?”
“No, I suppose not. And who selected the volumes?”
“Well, the township can select the books if it likes, or it can send a committee to select them; but they didn’t think it worth the trouble and expense. People grumbled enough at wasting money on books as it was, even if they did buy them at half price. Still, others said it was a pity not to get the money out of the Government when they had the chance. I don’t believe any of them cared very much about the books, except father and a few others. So the Government chose the books. They’ll do that if you leave it to them. And a queer lot of trash they sent, if you take my word for it. I believe they shoved off on us all the things no on else would buy. Even when they did pick out novels, they were just as tough as the history books. ‘Adam Bede’ is one. They say that’s a novel. I tried it, but I would rather read the history of Josephus any day. There’s some fighting in that, if it is a history. Then there’s any amount of biography books. They’re no good. There’s a ‘History of Napoleon.’ Old Bartlett’s got that, and he won’t give it up. He says he was taxed for the library against his will. He dares them to go to law about it, and it aint worth while for one book. The other sections are all asking for that book; not that they want it, but the whole country knows that old Bartlett’s a-holding on to it, so they’d like to see some fun. Bartlett’s read that book fourteen times, and it’s all he knows. I tell Margaret she ought to fine him, and keep on fining, but she won’t do it. I guess Bartlett thinks the book belongs to him by this time. Margaret likes Kitty and Mrs. Bartlett,—so does everybody,—but old Bartlett’s a seed. There he sits now on his veranda, and it’s a wonder he’s not reading the ‘History of Napoleon.’”
They were passing the Bartlett house, and young Howard raised his voice and called out:
“I say, Mr. Bartlett, we want that Napoleon book. This is changing day, you know. Shall I come up for it, or will you bring it down? If you fetch it to the gate, I’ll cart it home now.”
The old man paid no heed to what was said to him; but Mrs. Bartlett, attracted by the outcry, came to the door.
“You go along with your books, you young rascal!” she cried, coming down to the gate when she saw the professor. “That’s a nice way to carry bound books, as if they were a lot of bricks. I’ll warrant you have lost a dozen between Mallory’s and here. But easy come, easy go. It’s plain to be seen they didn’t cost you anything. I don’t know what the world’s a-coming to when the township spends its money in books, as if taxes weren’t heavy enough already. Won’t you come in, Mr. Renmark? Tea’s on the table.”
“Mr. Renmark’s coming with me this trip, Mrs. Bartlett,” young Howard said before the professor had time to reply; “but I’ll come over and take tea, if you’ll invite me, as soon as I have put the horse up.”
“You go along with your nonsense,” she said; “I know you.” Then in a lower voice she asked: “How is your mother, Henry—and Margaret?”