On one side of the room was a bookcase filled with hundreds--yes,
I mean it--with hundreds and hundreds of books; books with
gay-colored pictures, books without; books with black and white
outline-sketches, books with none at all; books with verses,
books with stories, books that made children laugh, and some that
made them cry; books with words of one syllable for tiny boys and
girls, and books with words of fearful length to puzzle wise
ones.

This was Carol's "Circulating Library." Every Saturday she chose
ten books, jotting their names down in a little diary; into these
she slipped cards that said:

"Please keep this book two weeks and read it.
With love, Carol Bird."

Then Mrs. Bird stepped into her carriage, and took the ten books
to the Childrens' Hospital, and brought home ten others that she
had left there the fortnight before.

This was a source of great happiness; for some of the Hospital
children that were old enough to print or write, and were strong
enough to do it, wrote Carol cunning little letters about the
books, and she answered them, and they grew to be friends. (It
is very funny, but you do not always have to see people to love
them. Just think about it, and see if it isn't so.)

There was a high wainscoting of wood about the room, and on top
of this, in a narrow gilt framework, ran a row of illuminated