Kisington Town - Abbie Farwell Brown

Скачать книгу

He liked to come to the little cottage better than anywhere else in the world, except to his own library. But at the library he in turn was host, and Harold became his guest. And he showed Harold many wonderful things in that library of which no one but the Librarian knew the existence,--strange histories, forgotten chronicles, wonder-tales. Gradually Harold became almost as well acquainted with the books as was the Librarian himself; though, of course, he did not at first understand them all. Nothing happens all at once. The other fellows called Harold the "Book-Wizard."

      The library was a beautiful building on the main square, close by the Lord Mayor's house and the belfry, where swung the great town bell. It was open freely to every one, from morning until night, and any one could always get any book he wanted, for there were many copies of each book. The caretakers always knew just where to find the book one wished. Or the reader might go in and choose for himself; which is a pleasanter thing when you have forgotten the name of your book, or do not know just which book you want most until you have looked about.

      The shelves of the library were nice and low, so that, no matter how little you were, you could reach the books without standing on tiptoe or climbing a dangerous ladder. And everywhere in the library were well-lighted tables to put books on, and cozy chairs, and crickets for your feet, and cushions for your back. There were wide window-seats, too, where between chapters one could curl up and look down into a beautiful garden.

      The air of the library was always sweet and clean. The books were always bright and fresh. There was no noise, nor dust, nor torn pages, nor cross looks to disturb one. The people who took care of the books were civil and obliging. It was indeed a very rare and unusual library. No wonder Harold and the Librarian and all the other citizens of Kisington loved it and were proud of it and used it very often.

       Table of Contents

      Now, when Harold was about twelve years old, a terrible thing befell his city. Red Rex, ruler of the neighboring land across the border, decided to make war on this peaceful Kingdom, just for fun. He was a fierce and powerful King, and he had a fierce and powerful army, always ready, night and day. One morning, without any warning whatever, they marched right up to the walls of Kisington, which were never defended, and laid siege to the city. They began to batter the gates and mine the walls and fire into the city arrows and cannon-balls, or whatever were the fashionable missiles of that long-past day. The peaceful city was in danger of being utterly destroyed.

      The people of Kisington were greatly distressed. Though they were brave, they did not want to fight. They had no time for fighting, there were so many more interesting things to attend to: agriculture and commerce, science and art and music, study and play and happiness, all of which come to an end when fighting begins. They did not want to fight; but neither did they want their beautiful city destroyed, with all its treasures.

      There was no telephone, no telegraph in those days. Messages went by horses. It would be days before help could come from their own King Victor, who lived in the Capital City. In the mean time what could be done to save Kisington? The Lord Mayor set the great bell to tolling in the belfry, and this called together the Chief Citizens in the hall of the library to consider the emergency.

      "Alas!" quoth the Lord Mayor, trying to make himself heard in the horrid din that was arising from the city gates, "our fair city is threatened, and will be taken in a few hours unless we can devise some plan of wisdom. Force we have not, as you all know. Force is the argument of barbarians. Already a missile has knocked down the statue of Progress from the portal of the library, and I fear that the whole building is doomed. For it is at our library that the enemy seem to be directing their malice."

      A groan of anguish answered him. Then the Librarian spoke up. "Ah! the misguided King! He does not love books. If only he knew the treasures he is threatening to destroy! He cannot understand."

      "No. He knows not what he does," said the Lord Mayor solemnly. "He is war-mad and cannot understand anything else. If he had been brought up to love peace and learning and progress better than war and blood, he would be a different man. He would be seeking to know our books in love, not to destroy them with hate. If he had but read our Chronicles, surely he would not wish to put an end to this our unique treasure."

      The Librarian started at his words and jumped to his feet. "You give me an idea, my Lord Mayor!" he cried. "Can we not cause him to change his mind? Can we not interest him in our books, enthrall him in the Chronicles of Kisington, so that he will cease to make war? Can we not at least gain time until our King Victor and his allies shall come to our aid?"

      Boom! went the cannon, and Crash! the statue of a great poet fell from the portal of the library.

      The Lord Mayor shuddered. "It is an idea," he agreed. "There is a faint hope. Something must be done, and that quickly. How shall we begin, Sir Librarian?"

      The Librarian turned to the shelves behind him and took down at random a book bound in red-and-gold. "Here, let us begin with this," he said. "It may not be the best of all our Chronicles, but if the warlike King can be induced to read it through, it may serve to hold his wrath for a space."

      "Who will go with the volume into the enemy's camp?" asked the Lord Mayor dubiously.

      "We must send our best reader," said the Librarian. "Red Rex must hear the tale read aloud, the better to hold his unaccustomed attention."

      "Surely, you are the best reader, Sir Librarian," urged the Lord Mayor generously. "How we all admire your style and diction!"

      Crash! The rainbow window above their heads was shivered into a thousand pieces.

      The Lord Mayor turned pale. "We must make haste!" he urged, pushing the Librarian gently by the elbow.

      "Nay," said the Librarian coolly, releasing himself. "There is one who reads far better than I. It is a young boy, the son of a poor widow living on the High Street. Harold is his name, and he reads as sweetly as a nightingale sings. Let us send for him at the same time when our messenger goes to King Victor."

      "Let it be done immediately!" commanded the Lord Mayor.

      This happened on a Saturday, when the boys were not at school. But on account of the bombardment of the city, the Lord Mayor had already given orders that every child should remain in his own home that morning. So Harold was with his mother when the messenger from the Lord Mayor knocked on the door of the little cottage in the High Street, and Robert and Richard did not know anything about it.

      "Come with me!" said the messenger to Harold. "You are needed for important service."

      "Oh, where is he going?" cried the poor, trembling mother, holding back her boy by the shoulders.

      "He is to come directly to the library," said the messenger. "The Librarian has a task for him."

      "Ah! The Librarian!" The mother sighed with relief, and let her hands fall from the shoulders of Harold. "To that good man of peace I can trust my son, even amid this wicked bombardment."

      When Harold came to the library with the messenger, they found the beautiful portal of the building quite destroyed, and the windows lying in pitiful shattered fragments. They entered under a rain of missiles, and discovered the Leading Citizens gathered in a pale group in the center of the hall, under a heavy oak table.

      "My boy!" said the Librarian, with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances. "We have sent for you, believing that you only can save our beautiful library, our books, our city, our people, from immediate destruction. Will you risk your life for all these, Harold?"

      Harold looked at him bravely. "I do not know what you mean, sir," he said, "but gladly would I risk my life to save the precious books alone. Tell me what I am to do, and I will do it as well as a boy can."

      "Well spoken, my brave lad!" cried the Librarian. "You are to do this"; and he thrust into the hand of Harold a red-and-gold volume. "Even as the boy David of old conquered

Скачать книгу