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IN BOOKLAND 
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Freedom. Duett With Knon 
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edge; I Abide With Men by Culture 
Trained and Fortified. 
That sentiment is cut into the marble 
in front of old Massachusetts Ilall at 
Harvard College, beneath the bronze bust 
of James Russell Lowell. Not far away 
is another tablet carrying a statement 
of the primary object of founding this 
first American college. This was to pro¬ 
tect the children of the colonists from 
the legacy of “an illiterate ministry.” It 
is true of nations, States, communities 
and families that intelligence or liberty 
of thought is trained and kept alive by 
culture, largely by the reading of good 
books and by thinking out the message 
which these books bring. 
In every town of fair size there may 
be found many excellent books. If they 
could be brought together one would be 
surprised at the size and quantity of this 
collection. But they are usually scattered 
through many homes. Few of them are 
lent or circulated, and thus fail to carry 
their message. An idle book on its shelf 
or table is like a crippled thought. It 
might as well be sent back to its crude 
material—a smear of ink. a handful of 
wood pulp and a wisp of cloth, for all 
the real good it does to the world. The 
spirit which it contains can only be given 
flight through circulation, particularly in 
places where the wing of money seldom 
flies. The best of our books are needed 
in the country districts, just as the best 
teachers and the best clergymen are need¬ 
ed there, for as freedom dwells with 
knowledge, so these country places are 
the best resting places for freedom. 
A book which might well be read and 
re-read is the disjointed and unfinished 
“Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin.” 
This is an old-fashioned book, rarely if 
ever read now by young people. Yet 
where could a young man find the true 
homely philosophy of life more fully test¬ 
ed or digested by experience? Franklin 
was a philosopher who “conceived the 
bold and arduous project of arriving at 
moral perfection.” lie framed a list of 
13 “virtues,” which he endeavored to 
practice so as to train himself against 
sudden emotion or weakness of will pow¬ 
er. Human nature seems to have been 
too much for him. Whitefield, the great 
preacher, came from England, and among 
other plans advocated a hospital or home 
for destitute children of Georgia colon¬ 
ists. Franklin wanted this home estab¬ 
lished in Philadelphia, and as Whitefield 
would not agree Franklin refused to con¬ 
tribute. Soon after he went to hoar 
Whitefield preach. He had in his pocket 
copper, silver and gold money, and re¬ 
solved not to give even a penny. As the 
preacher went on Franklin began to 
soften, and finally decided to give the 
coppers. Another stroke of oratory made 
him ashamed of such a gift, and he de¬ 
cided to give the silver. He ended by 
emptying gold' and all into the hat. 
Franklin was a great organizer, and 
one of his first efforts in this direction 
was collecting books for a library. Books 
were scarce in 1730—all brought from 
England. Franklin had a few, and he 
found friends who each had a few more. 
They never knew how many books there 
were until all were brought together. 
Franklin succeeded in obtaining a public 
collection of these books in a central 
room where they could be read and passed 
about. This led to a further step. After 
much work 50 persons were found in 
Philadelphia willing and able to put up 
40 shillings each for the purchase of 
books and pay 10 shillings per year as a 
further fund. This was the beginning of 
our public library system in America. 
Reading became fashionable, and in a 
few years the people “were observed to 
be better instructed and more intelligent 
than people of the same rank generally 
are in other countries.” 
Now, we would like to apply, in a 
way, some of the book methods of wise 
old Ben Franklin to this age—1S3 years 
after that first public library was start¬ 
ed. Even at that time the problem of 
what to read was a hard one. Money 
was scarce and books were expensive, and 
much thought was needed to select a good 
balanced ration of mental food. Frank¬ 
lin and his friends consulted the best 
critics they could find before buying. To¬ 
day books are cheap, and there are so 
many millions of them that no one can 
hope to digest more than a mere fraction 
of the number. It would be possible to 
send into a country neighborhood a 
collection of books which would surely 
increase the intelligence of the peo¬ 
ple and to that extent invite free¬ 
dom to live there. Or another set 
of books could be sent which would de¬ 
moralize the entire neighbourhood, breed 
discontent if not immorality, and make 
mental slaves of the people. “As a man 
thinketh—so is he,” and the thoughts are 
mostly determined by the message which 
is presented through books. 
So first of all we shall try to suggest 
the reading of good books. Getting at 
it in a somewhat original way we invite 
short notes on “Books that have helped 
me.” We shall not try to encourage 
reading simply for entertainment but 
reading for help through thought. To 
this end we invite short notes from peo¬ 
ple, particularly those who live in the 
country, who will tell us briefly of books 
which have really helped them. We do 
not want long essays or discussion, but 
short statements miming the book and 
telling irlnj or in what way it helped. 
This will put before our country people 
the thought which lies in these books 
which are worth reading. One man to 
whom we suggested this idea writes: 
"What! A mechanic, who had to earn 
his living since he was 12 years old, with 
only an old style common school educa¬ 
tion, asked to suggest books?” Why 
not? This man has found peace and 
something of freedom from reading good 
books. The very hardships and limita¬ 
tions of life put him in the path which 
75 per cent and more of our people must 
walk. Who could be better qualified to 
tell others about the books which have 
really helped him? Out of this will grow 
suggestions for reading courses and per¬ 
haps later a plan for distributing or ex¬ 
changing good books by mail. For ex¬ 
ample we know one man who has a set of 
the “Harvard Classics” but is so pre ssed 
for time that he cannot read the books. 
While they rest idly on his shelves they 
are as useless as bread left to dry up 
in the baker’s store while a few miles 
away people are starving. Perhaps we 
can, a little later, put a few wings on 
such books and send them out with good 
news. 
A book which has interested and 
helped me is “A Certain Rich Man” by 
Win. Allen White. is in one way 
“long winded” and wordy, but the theme 
of the story is fine. The “certain rich 
man” started as a poor boy. and by means 
of trickery and dishonest cunning came to 
be a powerful millionaire. Education only 
made this naturally bright and strong 
man more of an evil menace to society. 
The story shows in clear and homely 
fashion what a swath of sorrow and 
crime followed this man through life. I 
read it slowly and thoughtfully and then 
handed it to a friend who has just been 
elected to a county office. It ought to 
make a “public servant” think, s. b. n. 
Pennsylvania. 
A book deeply interesting to me is Dr. 
Cyril Hopkins’s “Story of The Soil.” 
This is an ambitious attempt to run the 
thread of a love story and homely details 
of plain living through a collection of 
scientific facts about farming. It re¬ 
quires an unusual string to hold such 
facts together. The most thrilling inci¬ 
dent in the book relates how the heroine, 
a Southern girl, is attacked by two col¬ 
ored brutes while driving home in the 
evening. The hero does his duty and 
the brutes are captured and lynched. 
During the struggle one of these rascals 
suddenly screamed and threw his hands 
to his face. It. developed that the her¬ 
oine had planted the heel of her good- 
sized shoe squarely in his eye! The hero 
started out to buy a farm. He wanted 
one which could be bought cheap because 
the crops had failed, while the soil still had 
much potential value. As an agricultural 
college graduate he knew that he could 
build up or renew such a soil and make 
it productive. So he went after a soil 
as he would buy a horse, testing it for 
lime and humus, sending fair samples for 
analysis and studying its possibilities. 
This book is of great help to me in mak¬ 
ing me think more about the needs of 
my farm. I shall test the theories which 
are advanced in it with care. They may 
not work out so well here but at any 
rate their discussion has widened my 
views of farming. c. I. 
New York. 
December 20, 
Christmas Carol, 
The earth has grown old with its burden 
of care, 
But at Christmas it always is young, 
The heart of the jewel burns lustrous and 
fair 
And its soul full of music breaks forth 
on the air 
When the song of the angels is sung. 
It is coming, old earth, it is .coming to¬ 
night ! 
On the snow flakes which cover the sod 
The feet of the Christ child fall gentle 
and white. 
And the voice of the Christ child tells 
out with delight 
That mankind are the children of God. 
On the sad and the lonely, the wretched 
and poor, 
The voice of the Christ child shall fall. 
And to every blind wanderer open the 
door 
Of a hope that we dared not to dream of 
before, 
With a sunshine of welcome for all. 
The feet of the humblest may walk in 
the field 
Where the feet of the holiest have trod. 
This, this is the marvel to mortals re¬ 
vealed. 
When the silvery trumpets of Christmas 
have pealed 
That mankind are the children of God. 
—Phillips Brooks. 
The Little Gray Lamb. 
Out on the endless purple hills, deep in 
the clasp of somber night, 
The shepherds guarded their weary ones— 
guarded their flocks of cloudy white, 
That like a snowdrift in silence lay. 
Save one little lamb with its fleece of 
gray. 
Out on the hillside all alone, gazing afar 
with sleepless eyes, 
The little gray lamb prayed soft and low, 
its weary face to the starry skies: 
“Oh moon of the heavens so fair, so 
bright, 
Give me—oh give me—a fleece of white!” 
No answer came from the dome of blue, 
nor comfort lurked in the cypress-trees; 
But faint came a whisper borne along on 
tlie scented wings of the passing breeze: 
“Little gray lamb that prays this night, 
I can not give thee a fleece of white.” 
Then the little gray lamb of the sleepless 
eyes prayed to the clouds for a coat of 
snow, 
Asked of the roses, besought the woods; 
hut each gave answer sad and low: 
“Little gray lamb that prays this night. 
We can not give thee a fleece of white.” 
Like a gem unlocked from a casket dark, 
like an ocean pearl from its bed of blue, 
Came, softly stealing the clouds between, 
a wonderful star which brighter grew 
Until it flamed like the sun by day 
Over the place where Jesus lay. 
Ere hushed were the angels’ notes of 
praise the joyful shepherds had quick¬ 
ly sped 
Past rock and shadow, adown the hill, 
to kneel at the Saviour’s lowly bed: 
While, like the spirits of phantom night, 
Followed their Hocks—their flocks of 
white. 
And patiently, longingly, out of the night, 
apart from the others—far apart— 
Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, 
the little gray lamb of the weary heart, 
Murmuring, “I must bide far away: 
1 am not worthy—my fleece is gray.” 
And the Christ Child looked upon hum¬ 
bled pride, at kings bent low on the 
earthen floor, 
But gazed beyond at the saddened heart 
of the little gray lamb at the open door; 
And lie called it up to his manger low 
and laid his hand on its wrinkled face, 
While the kings drew golden robes aside 
to give to the weary one a place. 
And the fleece of the little gray lamb was 
blest; 
For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest! 
In many cathedrals grand and dim. whose 
windows glimmer with pane and lens, 
’Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, 
hallowed about with last amens. 
The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with 
kneeling Magi wise and old, 
But his baby hand rests—not on the gifts, 
the myrrh, the frankincense, the gold— 
But on the head, with a heavenly light, 
Of the little gray lamb that was changed 
to white. 
—Archibald Beresford I>. Sullivan, in St 
Nicholas, 
Several farmers were sitting around 
the stove in the store and telling how 
the potato bugs had got their crops. Said 
one: “The bugs ate my whole crop in 
two weeks.” Then another spoke up: 
“They ate my crop in two days 
and then sat around on the trees 
and waited for me to plant more.” 
Here the storekeeper broke in: "Well,, 
boys,” he said, “that may be so, but I’ll 
tell you what I saw in this very store. I 
saw four or five potato bugs examining 
the books about a week before planting 
time to see who had bought the good 
seed.”—Credit Lost. 
