THE OLD LIBRARIAN
I watched him one day fingering a shelf caressingly,
forgetful of himself and all around him.
Very well I knew he could not see the titles, but he threw a touch of ownership into his hand, as if he still were privileged to command their journeyings.
I paused to read his face, in all that sunny, quiet, crowded place. There was not one who wore so proud a look, as if he knew he was with friends, and took
sweet pleasure in the knowledge.
Row by row, his fingers greeted them in gentle, slow, and measured salutation. Long years moved in memory past those volumes that he loved;
Seasons of service, outgrown now and gone, like old books over-read, dog-eared and torn, thrown to the dustheap!
And I turned away, lest my quick tears should cause him some dismay!
I
