"A poetry book."

"Where did you find it?"

"In Uncle Jonathan's library."

"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet,
in a mystified way. She had a general impression
of Jonathan's library as of century-old preserves,
altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one
from the other except by labels. Poetry she could
not imagine as being there at all. Finally she
thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and
Chaucer. The library might include them, but she
had an idea that Spenser and Chaucer were not fit
reading for a little boy. However, as she remem-
bered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny
could understand much of them. Probably he had
gotten hold of an early Victorian, and she looked
rather contemptuous.

"I don't think much of a boy like you reading
poetry," said Janet. "Couldn't you find anything
else to read?"

"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny,
before exploring his uncle's theological library, had
peered at his father's old medical books and his
mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrify-