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One day, after their own teacher had returned, ’Demonia and Bat
ty heard the bell ring three times in their class room. It was the
signal which called the children of the whole school to the “large
room.’’
It was not the regular time for assembling. The children thought
it odd to be standing on the line at that hour of the morning. They
marched down into the “large room’’ and took their customary seats.
What was that in front of the piano ? Two great hampers of flow
ers, brimming over with their wonderful burden ! Snowballs, lilacs,
bridal-wreath, wisteria, with many other blossoms, all alike strange
to most of the little hearts that beat so rapidly.
Other more fortunate children, who lived nearer the green fields in
the upper part of the city, some, perhaps in houses with gardens, had
remembered less happy brothers and sisters.
Desdemonia got a little bunch of pansies, thoughtfully tied up by
some loving little hand to whom their velvety little flower faces were
familiar. But Desdemonia called them “daisies.’’ The pansies did
not care, however, and Desdemonia was just as happy. Batty had a
snow-ball, but was too overcome with joy to call it anything.
When noon-time came, one who looked from out the window of
the school saw a strange sight. No sooner did the children reach
the street than a shout went up from every little throat, and every one
started, helter-skelter, for home. ’Demonia and Batty were not be
hind in the grand race. They reached their alley with the first.
A broken cup was transformed into a beautiful vase, by the pansies
and the snow-ball. Then the children took their bread and apple
butter into the court yard, after cautiously locking up the “true flow
ers’’ in the room they called home, and went over to the corner where
the sotir-grass grew.
Desdemonia eyed them sadly for a moment, and then said : “Well,
they can’t help it if the daisies won’t grow on ’em, kin they?’’
“Poor things !” murmured Batty—looking back at them regret
fully, but lovingly—as they started for school, “Poor things !”
For Woman’s Work.
How To Read A Book.
BY LUCIUS MIRABEAU LAMAR.
T HAS always been a matter of wonder to me that so few people
know how to read a book as it should be read. It is surprising; be
cause, in this day and age, books are cheap and abundant, and there-
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fore widely read and studied. Every man of distinction to-day, and
every man of distinction in days gone by, has been given to the habit
of constant reading; and, in view of the history and the experience of
these, I feel safe in venturing the assertion that it is a matter of abso
lute impossibility to attain any passable measure of distinction with
out a practice of this inurement.
Whilst recognizing and admitting the truth of this asseveration, it
is yet a patent fact that the distinction that has been reached through
a perusal of books has been attained only after arduous toil and
assiduous application—a measure of toil and of application that the
reader could have been spared, had he rejoiced in the possession of
the true method of how to read a book to* the greatest profit.
Everyone reads. We read for relaxation from more severe study,
and thus aid in refreshing the mind and reviving the spirits. We
read in order to become capacitated for the reception of the facts of
science, of politics, of society, and of religion, just as they really exist.
We read to acquaint ourselves with the facts in the experience and
history of our species, as our species lived and acted under diverse
and changing circumstances. We read to rescue from the oblivion of
the grave the important and vital facts of our own history, and to sift
out and to separate the facts from the traditions. We read to store
the mind with useful information and helpful knowledge, with an
idea to using them on future occasions, possibly at a moment’s notice.
We read to learn to write —to learn how a strong, or a nervous, or a
beautiful writer expresses himself—thereby laying the foundation
stone for the formation of a style of our own. We read for various
other purposes.
In order, then, to attain these ends (and who shall say that they
are not much to be desired?), what course is to be adopted—what
course can be pursued to the best advantage? To answer this shall
be the object and the purpose of the present paper.
As Parker says, people in America receive a mouthful only of
education, no one getting a full meal. This is true, because the
Americans are a superficial people. Those who read a great multi
tude of books never succeed in remembering what they have read, and
never are able to amass much knowledge that is of any value.
Therefore, you should read slowly and deliberately, looking up the
meaning of every word of which you may be ignorant or even doubt
ful, following up every reference that you may not comprehend, and
tracing the signification of every allusion, the exact import of which
you may fail to understand. Some of these references and some of
these allusions may lead you far afield; and, if so, all the better, if
you are only interested. Remember that rapid readers are usually
desultory in their perusal, and that, although they may read a
great deal, they ordinarily know but little. Seneca was right in as
serting that the mind fails to digest the food that is rapidly brought
before it. A perfect mastery of one book is much more to be
desired than a partial acquaintance with fifty books.
WOMAN’S WORK.
The regular perusal of a good book may be likened to the
making of a pleasant journey; for the chapters are the wayside inns
at which we periodically stop and rest; the references and the allu
sions, the diverging paths that branch out from the main way of
travel; and the pages, the mile-posts that are passed, one by one; as
we proceed. We pause sometimes to explore a picturesque lane, or a
sunny meadow, that lies in our way; or we climb to the summit of
some neighboring hill to see what lies beyond; and, when w r e return,
we are ready to continue our journey with augmented”’
interest and enjoyment. Is it not unnecessary to say that a journey
after this fashion, whether made through the delightful pages of a
good book, or through the sunny fields and shady dells of the country,
is by far the most enjoyable and the most profitable that well can be
made?
A word in regard to the character of the book that you should read,
and this in the language of one whose experience, wisdom and
benevolence would warrant you in a free and ready acceptation of
the truth of what he says:
“Bad books are to be found too frequently. If you have an enemy
whose soul you would visit with a heavy vengeance, and into whose
heart you would place vipers that will live and crawl and torment
him through life, and whose damnation you would seal up for the
eternal world, you have only to place one of these destroyers in his
hand. You have certainly paved the way to the abodes of death; and,
if he does not travel it with hasty strides, you have, at least, laid up
food for many days of remorse. ’ ’
“But I do not know exactly what books to read,’’ you say; and the
answer is this: Among the multitudes of books in this day and time,
there are those that will benefit you, and there are likewise those that
will injure, if not destroy you. To know, therefore, just what books
to chose is the great desideratum. Some say, in the absence of a better
plan: “Take the book as it comes to you,and read a chapter; you will
soon discover whether the book be worth your reading, and that, too,
without reading it through; just as you would know whether a well
of water were good, after drawing a bucketful, and finding it stale and
unpleasant. You do not need to drink off the whole well, to decide
that the water is not palatable. ’’ But, in the possession of a better
plan, you would be more sure of your safety. Treat books as you
would treat medicines: have nothing to do with them until others
have tried them, and can testify to their character and worth. There
are always a number of standard works to be had, and these are books
that, although written hundreds of years since, perhaps are still new;
they never fail to please, to instruct, and to profit. There can be no
doubt about such books; youjnay read them without fear and with
out reproach.
You sit down to the dining-table, and, when asked if you will be
served to such and such a dish, you always look thereon, and possi
bly taste its contents, before you are served and begin to eat. And so
with your book. As you sit down, run your eye over the title page ;
notice the name of the author of the book ; ascertain where and by
whom it is published ; ask yourself the question : “What is the gen
eral character of the books ‘gotten out’ by these publishers?’’ You
should call to mind what you have heard in conversation about the
merits and the demerits of the book. It is my practice to fill the fly
leaves of my books with words of approbation, or of disapproval, as
the case may be, from the press and the public, that I may compare
my estimate of the work with that of the press and the public. I read
always with profit by reading with a pen or a pencil in my hand, in
order to save the thoughts that are invariably started in the mind,
and that would be lost, possibly forever, if not jotted down at the
moment. For this purpose, I find phonography of inestimable value;
and the fly-leaves and the margins of my books are literally filled
with annotations in shorthand characters.
To return : next, the preface should be read, for it is here that the
plan, the purpose, and the object of the writer are unfolded. Here it
is that you may find what the author expects to prove, or what plan
or what scheme he intends to evolve. The introduction and the con
tents should not go unnoticed —the latter supplying, in advance, in
formation in regard to the general divisions of the subject, that can
be gotten in no other way without such trouble and expense of time
as would fail to warrant you in your search therefor. From the con
tents we get the main ideas and the general plan of the work; and
are not infrequently able to know, without going further, whether we
shall be pleased with the book.
“Annotations—what shall I do about these? Shall I mark my
books?’’ By all means. The pencil marks that cover the pages of
my books add to the value of the volumes. Who, that years ago an
notated his books and later took them up for a second perusal, has
not found exquisite pleasure in reading a second time those old marks,
those old thoughts, that a long time since were started in his mind,
and that he saved for future enjoyment and service? To annotate
your books is to pave the way for a second perusal with increased
pleasure. To annotate your books is to afford a means wherewith to
read to the greatest profit. To annotate your books is to secure the
greatest amount of benefit therefrom, to become the better acquainted
with your author ; to train the mind the better to think —and to think
is the highest act of which the mind is capable ; to judge, to discrim
inate, to compare, to sift out the wheat from the chaff. Your mar
ginal marks and annotations should criticize the imagery, the me
chanical arrangement, the sentiment, the allusions, the illustrations,
the facts, the thought, the taste, the judgment, and the style of your
author. A book read in this manner will not be thrown aside so
quickly as will a book read in a more superficial, skimming and des
ultory way ; but, when finally it is laid aside, you will put it off with
the exclamation : “Well, I have received more profit and pleasure
from that book than any other that I have ever read. I did not think
to become so interested. lam now more able to converse intelligent
ly upon this subject than I had ever hoped to be I”
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