Reading for pure enjoyment isn't a
formal affair any more than eating. Sometimes I feel in the mood for
a grapefruit for breakfast, sometimes for an orange, and sometimes
for neither. I'm glad not to board at a place where they have
standardized breakfasts and reading. If I feel in the mood for an
orange I want an orange, even if my neighbor has a casaba melon. So,
if I want my "Middlemarch," I'm quite eager for that book, and am
quite willing for my neighbor to have his "Henry Esmond." The
appetite for books is variable, the same as for food, and I'd rather
consult my appetite than my neighbor when choosing a book as a
companion through a lazy afternoon beneath the maple-tree, I refuse
to try to supervise the reading of my pupils. Why, I couldn't
supervise their eating. I'd have to find out whether the boy was
yearning for porterhouse steak or ice-cream, first; then I might help
him make a selection. The best I can do is to have plenty of steak,
potatoes, pie, and ice-cream around, and allow him to help himself.
CHAPTER XIX
MAKE-BELIEVE
The text may be found in "Over Bemerton's," by E.
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