ant?

A friend proposes to put Owen's "Footfalls on the Boundaries of Another
World" in Travels. Shall we let him?

* * * * *

A poet, in Boston, filled out an application for a volume of Pope's
works, an edition reserved from circulation, in the following tuneful
manner:

"You ask me, dear sir, to a reason define
Why you should for a fortnight this volume resign
To my care.--_I am also a son of the nine._"

* * * * *

A worthy Deutscher, confident in his mastery of the English tongue, sent
the following quaint document across the sea:

"I send you with the Post six numbers, of our Allgemeine Militaer-Zeitung,
which is published in the next year to the fifty times. Excuse my bath
english I learned in the school and I forgot so much. If you have
interest to german Antiquariatskataloge I will send to you some. I remain
however yours truly servant."

* * * * *

A gentlemanly stranger once asked the delivery clerk for "a genealogy."
"What one?" she asked. "Oh! any," he said. "Well--Savage's?" "No; white
men."

* * * * *

Said Melvil Dewey: "To my thinking, a great librarian must have a clear
head, a strong hand, and, above all, a great heart. Such shall be
greatest among librarians; and, when I look into the future, I am
inclined to think that most of the men who will achieve this greatness
will be women."

* * * * *

A LIBRARY HYMN.

_By an Assistant Librarian._

I have endeavored to clothe the dull prose of the usual Library Rules
with the mantle of poetry, that they may be more attractive, and more
easily remembered by the great public whom we serve.

Gently, reader, gently moving,
Wipe your feet beside the door;
Hush your voice to whispers soothing,
Take your hat off, I implore!
Mark your number, plainly, rightly,
From the catalogue you see;
With the card projecting slightly,
Then your book bring unto me.
Quickly working,
With no shirking,
Soon another there will be.

If above two weeks you've left me,
Just two cents a day I'll take,
And, unless my mind's bereft me,
Payment you must straightway make.
Treat your books as if to-morrow,
Gabriel's trump would surely sound,
And all scribbling, to your sorrow,
'Gainst your credit would be found.