the moon.

Yes, he loved his books with passion and tenderness; but not having
means wherewith to buy them, he read every book that was entrusted
to him to bind. Not being the collector of the volumes in his
workshop, chance alone being responsible for the heterogeneous
display,--to-day a sentimental love-tale, to-morrow a medical
treatise, the next day a theological work,--it followed that the
poor little bookbinder's head was filled with as confused a mass of
lore, religious and profane, as ever cast in its lot in the sum of
human knowledge. The more a book pleased him, the longer did the
owner have to wait for it; and it was only after repeated insistence
that the coveted volume was placed in the rightful possessor's
hands.

Naturally, Kalimann's prices varied according to the work required,
or the cost of material; but when it came to the question of
ornamental finishing or decorative impressions, his customer's
orders were totally ignored, and he it was who decided upon the
finishing according to the subject or the value of the work.

When he carried the books back to his customers, he would always tie
them up carefully in a large colored handkerchief, and, while
unwrapping them, would embrace the opportunity of expressing his
views upon their contents; at times, however, he regarded the open
assertion of his opinion as dangerous, and could not be induced to
pass judgment. On these occasions he never failed to say with a
sorrowful shake of the head, "While we are living we may not speak,
when we are dead it is too late!"