Humour and Pathos in a Country Library

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXV, Issue 23009, 9 April 1938, Page 6 (Supplement)

Humour and Pathos in a Country Library

you recommend a good murder, MissP I look up from my desk to meet the gaze of a small inoffensivelooking little man, who eyes me expectantly through Iborn-rimmed spectacles. . *4 Having directed him the by no means inconsiderable section of the library devoted to mystery and detective fiction, and colled to his notice one or two particularly "gory" thrillers, I return to my desk pondering over the divers tastes of readers. Invalid's Pleasure Not to be judged by appearances are •lie members of our small country town ibrary. A young bedraggled-looking ivoman,, with apparently the cares of the world pressing down upon her, invariably asks for uomething to read "with plenty of love in it, please." "I don't have much time for reading," she explains with an apologetic glance at her numerous offspring, "but when the children are in bed I do enjoy a eltory about rich people falling in love. Evidently she gets a vicarious thrill out of other folks' romances. For a while I puzzled over the personality of a shabby old woman who

By TOME

visits the library three times every week, taking out only books of travel. I remarked to her one day that Bhe must have almost exhausted our selection of this literature.

"Oh," she replied, "I do not read. I haven't the time. I choose the books for my husband. He has been paralysed for 15 years, and the only real pleasure he has is reading books about strange countries, so I try to find something fresh for him each time I come in." With a "choky" feeling in my throat 1 turn to help her in her search, while mentally deciding that she shall in future have immediate access to all the travel books acquired by this library.

A Bense of humour is an asset to a country librarian. Recently a young farmer came in, bearing on his shoulder a heavily-weighted sack. <? For you,

Miss," he told me, his red faoe beaming, "carrots. Dad thought, you might like them, as we have decided not to keep pigs this year." I thanked him, and my family decided the loss was the pigs', for those carrots were good. A Wrong Impression The dapper young man, formerly met casually in a ballroom where he left one with the impression of a Continental gigolo in the making, provided another surprise. His reading consists of books on sociology and philosophy, and he is well learned on both subjects. A dear old lady asked my advice the other day upon choosing suitable books

for a Christmas present for her fourteen-year-old grand-daughter. Did I think "Celestrial Street," by "A. P. Monkly," would be suitable ? Such a nice title she thought. With a clear recollection of one or two rather lurid passages in the volume, I gave as my opinion that as reading matter it was a little too mature for a young girl, and remembering my thrills when reading "Little Women," suggested something similar as a present for the young lady. The Modern Choice Grandma looked dubious. "Oh," she said, "I'm afraid that would be too 'young' for her. She likes very modern books. I picked up one she was reading the other day called "The Curate's Underwear" or some such title, and really, it seemed to me to be not quite-er —" I hastily agreed that the book in question was certainly not "quite" for a young thing or fourteen summers, and compiled for her benefit a list of more innocuous volumes. Truly, one obtains interesting sidelights on humanity in a small country library.