heap."

Mr. Carnegie spoke these last words very slowly and wearily, and with
his most wistful look; and then, recalling himself suddenly, and handing
me a glass to look at New York with and see what I thought of it, he
asked to be excused for a moment, and saying, "I have fourteen libraries
to give away before a quarter past twelve," he hurried out of the room.

CHAPTER II

MR. CARNEGIE TRIES TO MAKE PEOPLE READ

I found, as I was studying the general view of New York as seen from the
top through Mr. Carnegie's glass, that there appeared to be a great many
dots--long rows of dots for the most part--possibly very high buildings,
but there was one building, wide and white and low, and more spread-out
and important-looking than any of the others, which especially attracted
my attention. It looked as if it might be a kind of monument or
mausoleum to somebody. On looking again I found that it was filled with
books, and was the Carnegie Public Library. There were forty more
Libraries for New York Mr. Carnegie was having put up, I was told, and
he had dotted them--thousands of them almost everywhere one could look,
apparently, on his own particular part of the planet.

A few days later, when I began to do things at a closer range, I took a
little trip to New York, and visited the Library; and I asked the man
who seemed to have it in charge, who there was who was writing books for
Mr. Carnegie's Libraries just now, or if there was any really adequate
arrangement Mr. Carnegie had made for having a few great books written
for all these fine buildings--all these really noble book-racks, he had
had put up. The man seemed rather taken aback, and hesitated. Finally, I
asked him point blank to give me the name of the supposed greatest
living author who had written anything for all these miles of Carnegie
Libraries, and he mentioned doubtfully a certain Mr. Rudyard Kipling. I
at once asked for his books, of course, and sat down without delay to
find out if he was the greatest living author the planet had, what it
was he had to say for it and about it, and more particularly, of course,
what he had to to say it was for.

I found among his books some beautiful and quite refined interpretations
of tigers and serpents, a really noble interpretation or conception of
what the beasts were for all the glorious gentlemanly beasts--and of
what machines were for--all the young, fresh, mighty, worshipful
engines--and what soldiers we