Page 39.

Might become condescending, and humbly implore him

To come along-side with his cotton umbrella.

But the shower didn’t come, and without a disaster,

They reached the huge Library—christened of Astor.

Then she shook down her skirts to their natural latitude—

Ahem’d once or twice—struck out a nice attitude—

And then she struck into this little oration,

Though I’m sure I don’t know where she learned declamation.

“Spirit, behold! these bending shelves

Are groaning ’neath the gathered store

Of every nation’s varied lore.

Most welcome are the poor themselves

To freely turn these countless pages,

And gather from the words of sages

All the light of former ages.

Whoever wills is here a guest,

The poorest are the welcomest.

Who hath done this? your virtuous mob,

Or a ‘cold-hearted miser,’ a ‘pampered snob’?”

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