The herald., 1897-03-28
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|: THE LIBRARY GHOST

MISREPRESENTATION S-sI ss-V
Hundreds of people were hurrying up
Main street. 1t was after the dinner
hour, and the downtown hotels were
sending their transient population to in
crease the rapidly swelling crowds that
were already thronging the streets. A
chilly wind was blowing; the settling
night was alive with the clangor OF street
car bells, the shouting of homeward-
bound teamsters and the spasmodic cries
of the street gamins in their play. 1t
was the noise of a busy city after night
fall. The air was full of fragme ntary
conversation and the rush of shutting
feet.
Into the midst of this maelstrom he
came, like a ghost of a half-century ago.
On his head was the remnant of what
had once been hat The crown was
gone and the edges were ragged and
uneven From beneath the tattered rim
was broad halo Of white hair. fine as
the silk on the autumn corn. A frosty
white beard dropped away from strong,
square chin In separate ringlets, and the
time-grooved face, like frost-nipped
apple was topped by high, broad fore
head. His dress of overall and jumper
was scrupulously clean and bleached
from much washing; they were quite as
old as those In which Rip Van Wrinkle
found himself clothed when he awoke
from his long sleep, save they were NOT
so ragged. The tumper and overall were
patched and interviewer with deftly
darryed pieces, until the whole locked
like patchwork qrllt. Shambling
along on his feeble old legs, his body
was bent far to the left his arm support
ing the hip. In his right hand he carried
a staff quite as bent and irregular as his
meager frame. He was truly ghost of
long ago. There was no part in the sur
rounding things for him. Dhe uproar OF
the busy people, the dirt and the hurry
concerned him not.
He was on his way to the reference IL
brary. With faltering steps, he passed
along the sidewalk. disappearing and
reappearing among the stream OF pedes-
trians as he stopped again and again for
rest. 1t was as If he had awakened from
a long dream and was about to take up
the thread of life just where he had left
off. While he seemed to have been
asleep thousands of books had been Civ
en- to the world. He did not care to read
these-what he wanted was to resume
his study of the old masters that he was
reading when the deep sleep was cast
over him. Under, his left arm he car
ried a bundle, carefully wrapped in
brown paper. 1t must have been pre-
cious package from the care ne bestowed
upon 1t. Stopping at each street corner,
he peered through rent in the worn
wrappings at its contents, and his face
would light with a smile, apparently
satisfied, that they were safe. Then he
would go on, passing street after street
until the doorway of the public library
was reached.
Once in the reference room. he is
greeted cheerlngly by the prim little
nut-brown woman, who deals out tie
reference books and insists that abso-
lutte quiet prevails. She has guessed long
ago what the neat parcel which he so
carefully guards, contains. She drew
her conclusion from his selection off
books on philosophy. Nobody could
think of his ever having been a man of
business or an ardent lover-no, indeed
He was an old man out of a book of fairy
tales. No one but genius or very &C.
centric persona would go about in such
a dress and read musty old books on the
sciences. Then, too, he was on familiar
terms with their titles and their authors.
Those who frequent the reference roem
of the public library are always glad
to see him in the evenings. He Is a per-
fectly safe person to have about. There
is a quaint old dignity about him which
would repel the idea of his soiling or
carrying Off a book. They had a name
for him, the little ut-brown woman and
those who visited the library. but, of
course; it was not his right name. If
they had ever known his real name, they
straightway forgot it in order to give
space to things and events more inter
esting. He has been coming there SO long
and so often now that nobody takes the
trouble to inquire about his antecedents.
To read books on philosophy and to
make voluminous notes is, it seems to
be, his only business at the library. His
voice is still full and manly and bubbling
with reminiscent good humor. He Is
nc 0fharS
reading his favorite books; he never
complains, and is never In the way.
He lives somewhere, this ghost of the
library, but he keeps the location of mis-
dwelling place mystery. So far as can
be learned he was never known to do
any work, but he is by no means beg
gar or a tramp. Never curious himself,
he does not ask questions, and it cannot
be said of him that politics has ever up
set the placid ebb ard flow of his life.
Like a stream on its even bed, he flows
on the year around, and nightly, with
the first peep of the stars. he follows
them into the world. To live on and to
live quietly among books of forgotten
lore, Is, 1t seems, his life's chief charm.
He is a type of that part of humanity
which enjoys all and is contert. Presi-
dents may be made; prize fights fought
and won; stocks go bobbing up and
down; war. panic and plague sweep the
country; Grover Cleveland may never
be heard of again; Greece may wrench
Crete away from the Turk, and the
deep-water harbor be completed at San
Pedro. without in the least disturbing
the serenity of the ghost of the library
People never have taken the trouble to
ask how old he Is, they are too busy with
their own concerns. He makes queer
little tests when he thinks those around
him are sorrowing, and he laughs so
heartily at them that even the little nut
brown woman could not begrudge him
his Jest or his laugh.
These are some of>the virtues which
the ghost of the library always welcome.
w. G. MAC RAE.