mean to be impertinent, John?"

"No, ma'am," replied Johnny, and with perfect truth. He had not the
slightest idea of the title of the book.

"What was the book?"

"A poetry book."

"Where did you find it?"

"In Uncle Jonathan's library."

"Poetry In Uncle Jonathan's library?" said Janet, in a mystified way.
She had a general impression of Jonathan's library as of century-old
preserves, altogether dried up and quite indistinguishable one from the
other except by labels. Poetry she could not imagine as being there
at all. Finally she thought of the early Victorians, and Spenser and
Chaucer. The library might include them, but she had an idea that
Spenser and Chaucer were not fit reading for a little boy. However,
as she remembered Spenser and Chaucer, she doubted if Johnny could
understand much of them. Probably he had gotten hold of an early
Victorian, and she looked rather contemptuous.

"I don't think much of a boy like you reading poetry," said Janet.
"Couldn't you find anything else to read?"

"No, ma'am." That also was truth. Johnny, before exploring his uncle's
theological library, had peered at his father's old medical books
and his mother's bookcases, which contained quite terrifying uniform
editions of standard things written by women.

"I don't suppose there ARE many books written for boys," said Aunt
Janet, reflectively.

"No, ma'am," said Johnny. He finished winding the watch, and gave, as
was the custom, the key to Aunt Janet, lest he lose it.

"I will see if I cannot find some books of travels for you, John," said
Janet. "I think travels would be good reading for a boy. Good night,
John."

"Good night. Aunt Janet," replied Johnny. His aunt never kissed him good
night, which was one reason why he liked her.

On his way to bed he had to pass his mother's room, whose door stood
open. She was busy writing at her desk. She glanced at Johnny.

"Are you going to bed?" said she.

"Yes, ma'am."

Johnny entered the room and let his mother kiss his forehead, parting
his curly hair to do so. He loved his mother, but did not care at all to
have her kiss him. He did not object, because he thought she liked to
do it, and she was a woman, and it was a very little thing in which he
could oblige her.

"Were you a good boy, and did you find a good book to read?" asked she.

"Yes, ma'am."

"What was the book?" Cora Trumbull inquired, absently, writing as she
spoke.

"Poetry."

Cora laughed. "Poet