It did
not look so very old, nor as if it had been much read; neither
did it look very inviting to me as I turned its leaves. On its
title-page I read "The Life of John Calvin." I did not know who
he was, but a book was a book to me, and this would do as well as
any to begin my library with. I looked upon it as a treasure, and
to make sure of my claim, I took it down to my mother and timidly
asked if I might have it for my own. She gave me in reply a
rather amused "Yes," and I ran back happy, and began my library
by setting John Calvin upright on a beam under the garret eaves,
my "make-believe" book-case shelf.
I was proud of my literary property, and filled out the shelf in
fancy with a row of books, every one of which should have two
stiff covers. But I found no more neglected volumes that I could
adopt. John Calvin was left to a lonely fate, and am afraid that
at last the mice devoured him. Before I had quite forgotten him,
however, I did pick up one other book of about his size, and in
the same one-covered condition; and this attracted me more,
because it was in verse.
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