Perhaps I can best give you an idea of the work of the wagon if you will come with me, in spirit, for a typical day in the country. The new car is constructed very much as the old wagon was, with room for two passengers, besides the chauffeur, one member of the staff goes on the trips now, for our chauffeur is a chauffeur only, nor is he the picturesque figure Mr. Thomas was.
Let us choose a morning in spring, when red bud and dogwood are in bloom, and the fruit trees are fluffy masses of pink and white clouds, and the tender green of new life is showing on hill side and forest, and the "hills of Maryland" stand out like lapis lazuli against a turquoise sky. It is a fair country, and one can understand why the early settlers tarried in this valley in their march westward, over the very National Road that we shall drive over today; a road full of historic meaning, a road that has seen the covered wagons of the emigrant tide, that has resounded to the tread of advancing and retreating armies, and that is now a thoroughfare for motor cars. We see little, or no actual poverty, occasionally the down-at-the-heels farm of a "poor white," but thrift and comfort are the rule.
We spin gaily along in our motor wagon, stopping at the farm houses along the way; occasionally horses shy at us, and children stick their fingers in their mouths and stare, for automobiles are still somewhat of a novelty on cross roads and lanes, and country horses and children are not so sophisticated as their city brethren. Sometimes we go a mile or more off the main road, to reach one house; we are rewarded in one such case, for we find a girl of sixteen, who has never read Miss Alcott, and we leave her with Little Women in her arms. A swarm of "sunbonnet babies" greets us here, too, and we find a picture book for the older sister to read to them.
At one house we have some difficulty in enticing the farmer's wife out to look at our wares. "He" is out on the farm, and there is not much time for reading. We discover a boy of twelve or thirteen, however, lurking in the background, with a dog at his heels, the dog is a convenient topic of conversation, and Beautiful Joe happens to be in the wagon. An inquiry as to the family elicits the information that this boy is all, except an "orphant boy we took." After some difficulty the "orphant boy" is brought forth from the recesses of the barn, where, we strongly suspect, he has had an eye at a crack all the time, and proves to be the regulation "bound boy" of Mary E. Wilkins, tattered straw hat, patched overalls and all; he, too, has a fondness for animals, and so we drive away, leaving boys and dog looking after us, with Seton-Thompson as a companion.
One wide detour, up a hilly lane, brings us to a house, commanding a wonderful view of hills and valleys, and the Potomac, a winding silver thread in the distance. Here we find the mistress of the house, and a girl of sixteen or eighteen, who "lives there;" they used to get books from the old wagon, they tell us, and it has seemed a long time since they had any. Accordingly, we bid them help themselves, and as we are preparing to drive away, one of them, hugging a huge pile of heterogeneous literature, says to the other, "Law, Bess, we'll fergit to listen on the 'phone!" an unconscious tribute both to us and the rural telephone system.
And now we find that the dinner hour has arrived; sometimes there is a country hotel at hand, but more often we have dinner at some hospitable farm house, which gives us a golden opportunity to make friends with our people. It is noticeable that the conversation is confined almost entirely to us women, the men attending strictly to the business in hand; the women, however, make the most of an unusual event, and between serving and conversation, it often seems to us as though their own wants must be entirely forgotten.
There is a country school on our way, and we stop there to get the key to a church a little farther on, where we are to pick up a case of books; the temptation to a story teller is too great to be resisted, the wagon goes on, to come back a little later, the two rooms are put together, and I have the pleasure of telling "Johnny Cake" and "Seven little kids" to children who have never heard them before. When the wagon appears we suggest a picture, and a grand stampede follows, all the school commissioners and truant officers on earth could not have kept a child in that building—the charm of the Pied Piper was no greater!
"And what do your country children read?" We are often asked, and we like to reply, with considerable pride, that they read good books. When the wagon is being loaded for a trip a large proportion of the books is from the shelves of the children's room, and of the fiction fully 75% bears the mystic symbol "J," showing, as I have said, that the same books are read by parents and children; war stories are always in demand, particularly of the Civil War; Henty is a prime favorite, and of the better Hentys, With Clive in India, Beric the Briton, for instance, we duplicate quite freely. Novels of a religious character, such as Ben Hur are popular, and Pilgrim's progress is always in demand.
And so our day slips by, and before we know it evening is upon us; by four o'clock we see preparations for the night going on in the barn yard. We go home, tired, but with depleted shelves, and the consciousness of a good day's work. May there be many more to come, and may each one of you fare forth with us one day, on some such happy library adventure.
Mr. Henry E. Legler read a paper prepared by Miss JEAN McLEOD, house librarian, Sears, Roebuck & Co., Chicago, on