The New York herald., 1922-12-17

d SOOu DOOh Keeps ull1l dNahe ne udS
read all the murder yarns in the library
and complains in the voice of drug ad-
dict being deprived of his ration that
there's nothing new and what, is he going
to do?
And you learn that there are more peo-
pie with the souls of reformers than sta
tistics will ever show. They come in with
a book held gingerly between thumb and
forefinger and drop it disdainfully on the
desk. THAT book" they announce in a
voice meant to carry, lis not fit to be on
the shelves of a decent library" You are
glad, anyway, that they consider this a
decent library. will you tell Miss X
(the chief that I said so? Or, no, 1 will
go and tell her myself It's terrible.
can't imagine how such things are allowed
off the press. 1 can't see how they are
permitted to circulate" The voice is ris-
ing slowly but surely. By and by, every
reader will be two listening ears. And to
think that you haven't even put it in the
restricted sectionl What if some child
should get hold of it?" do you really
think" you say, if inclined to argue, That
such a-sophsticated-b would make
any impression on a child?" "Of course"
comes the response without an instants
hesitation. Why it was all 1 could do to
read it myself" 'What do you object to?"
sIt's indecent. It's"-if they are very
brazen they come on out with tits posi-
lively immoral. Why. my dear" leaning
over the desk, "that woman actually lives
with that man in Paris. :. Haven't you
read it?" Not yet" you admit We'll. you
ought to. Merely, that is, to see what
trash is being written It's terrible" And
after they think you have more or less
forgotten the conversation they say craft
lily, Has this What's Name written
any other books?" You give them list.
Not really" A shake of the head. isn't
it dreadful?" Wickedly, meanly, you say.
I'm sure you, with your cultured taste.
will enjoy Trollope. Shall get one of his
boolzs?" Who's he? Modern?" "Oh, no,
he wrote back in the Victorian days"
Never mind" they say hastily with
forced smile, I'm not reading old authors
just now. You know how it is. | want to
keep up with the new books. Though,
of course. / can't say they're worth it.
After all, the old writer's But 1
can't take any tonight; thanks just the
same" And a few days later they come
back, you find, hunt up a book by What's
His-Name, have it charged in silence, and
stalk out with it,
Then there are. of course the other peo-
pie who will read anything but a modern
book. Some go on the assumption that
the finer the print. the dingier the binding
and the dustier the edges the better the
book. Others first determine whether the
author is dead before they will so much as
glance at a page. They want, subcon-
sciously. to be protected and a dead author
is a wonderful protection to them. These
people are generally a little dingy in ap-
pearance themselves. They have faded
eyes and they are either very naughty and
aloof or very sweet and condescending.
You don't know which is worse When
they ask you for good book you must
be sure not to mention any one later than
that young upstart Dickens. Shaw? Gals
worthy? Bennett? Are they good? 1
don't know them. Living? Oh. well. of
course"
A strange crew-these people who come
up to the desk: the man who wants the
complete history of Piscataway Township
from the year 1887 to date; the woman
who is reading Zola volume by volume
simply because it is in the restricted Sec
ton; the little girl who asks naively for
a real good story with lots and lots of
love in it, for mama" Sometimes, deal
ing as you must at close quarters with
tlo