those far-off days there were no public
libraries, and no books except rare and expensive volumes, written by
hand, mainly by monks in their quiet monasteries, on parchment or
vellum.

In the quaint, drowsy, picturesque town of Haarlem, in Holland, with
its narrow, irregular, grass-grown streets and many-gabled houses, the
projecting upper stories of which almost meet, one particular house,
which seems even older than any of the others, is pointed out to
visitors as one of the most interesting sights of the ancient place. It
was in this house that Laurence Coster, the father of the art of
printing, the man--at least so runs the legend--who made it possible
for the poorest and humblest to enjoy the inestimable luxury of books
and reading, lived and loved and dreamed more than five hundred years
ago.

Coster was warden of the little church which stood near his home, and
his days flowed peacefully on, in a quiet, uneventful way, occupied
with the duties of his office, and reading and study, for he was one of
those who had mastered the art of reading. A diligent student, he had
conned over and over, until he knew them by heart, the few manuscript
volumes owned by the little church of which he was warden.

A lover of solitude, as well as student and dreamer, the church
warden's favorite resort, when his duties left him at leisure, was a
dense grove not far from the town. Thither he went when he wished to be
free from all distraction, to think and dream over many things which
would appear nonsensical to his sober, practical-minded neighbors.
There he indulged in day dreams and poetic fancies; and once, when in a
sentimental mood, he carved the initials of the lady of his love on one
of the trees.

In time a fair young wife and children came, bringing new brightness
and joy to the serious-minded warden. With ever increasing interests,
he passed on from youth to middle life, and from middle life to old
age. Then his son married, and again the patter of little feet filled
the old home and made music in the ears of Grandfather Coster, whom the
baby grandchildren almost worshiped.

To amuse the children, and to impart to them whatever knowledge he
himself possessed, became the delight of his old age. Then the habit
acquired in youth of carving letters in the bark of the trees served a
very useful purpose in furthering his object. He still loved to take
solitary walks, and many a quiet summer afternoon the familiar figure
of