nt nooks
And fragrance is over it all;
For sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall.

Here is a folio that's grim with age
And yellow and green with mould;
There's the breath of the sea on every page
And the hint of a stanch ship's hold.

And here is a treasure from France la belle
Exhaleth a faint perfume
Of wedded lily and asphodel
In a garden of song abloom.

And this wee little book of Puritan mien
And rude, conspicuous print
Hath the Yankee flavor of wintergreen,
Or, may be, of peppermint.

In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell
Where the cheery daisy grows,
And where in meadow or woodland dwell
The buttercup and the rose.

But best beloved of books, I ween,
Are those which one perceives
Are hallowed by ashes dropped between
The yellow, well-thumbed leaves.

For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear,
Till the treasured book is read;
And the ashes betwixt the pages here
Tell us of one long dead.

But the gracious presence reappears
As we read the book again,
And the fragrance of precious, distant years
Filleth the hearts of men

Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks
The posies that bloom for all;
Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books
In their places against the wall!

Better than flowers are they, these books of mine! For what are the
seasons to them? Neither can the drought of summer nor the asperity of
winter wither or change them. At all times and under all circumstances
they are the same--radiant, fragrant, hopeful, helpful! There is no
charm which they do not possess, no beauty that is not theirs.

What wonder is it that from time immemorial humanity has craved the
boon of carrying to the grave some book particularly beloved in life?
Even Numa Pompilius provided that his books should share his tomb with
him. Twenty-four of these precious volumes were consigned with him to
the grave. When Gabriel Rossetti's wife died, the poet cast into her
open grave the unfinished volume of his poems, that being the last and
most precious tribute he could pay to her cherished memory.

History records instance after instance of the consolation dying men
have received from the perusal of books, and many a one has made his
end holding in his hands a particularly beloved volume. The reverence
which even unlearned men hav