In Walton the brooks a-babbling tell Where the cheery daisy grows, And where in meadow or woodland dwell The buttercup and the rose. But best beloved of books, I ween, Are those which one perceives Are hallowed by ashes dropped between The yellow, well-thumbed leaves. For it's here a laugh and it's there a tear, Till the treasured book is read; And the ashes betwixt the pages here Tell us of one long dead. But the gracious presence reappears As we read the book again, And the fragrance of precious, distant years Filleth the hearts of men Come, pluck with me in my garden nooks The posies that bloom for all; Oh, sweet is the smell of my old, old books In their places against the wall! Better than flowers are they, these books of mine! For what are the seasons to them? Neither can the drought of summer nor the asperity of winter wither or change them. At all times and under all circumstances they are the same--radiant, fragrant, hopeful, helpful! There is no charm which they do not possess, no beauty that is not theirs. What wonder is it that from time immemorial humanity has craved the boon of carrying to the grave some book particularly beloved in life? Even Numa Pompilius provided that his books should share his tomb with him. Twenty-four of these precious volumes were consigned with him to the grave. When Gabriel Rossetti's wife died, the poet cast into her open grave the unfinished volume of his poems, that being the last and most precious tribute he could pay to her cherished memory. History records instance after instance of the consolation dying men have received from the perusal of books, and many a one has made his end holding in his hands a particularly beloved volume. The reverence which even unlearned men have for books appeals in these splendid libraries which are erected now and again with funds provided by the wills of the illiterate. How dreadful must be the last moments of that person who has steadfastly refused to share the companionship and acknowledge the saving grace of books! Such, indeed, is my regard for these friendships that it is with misery that I contemplate the probability of separation from them by and by. I have given my friends to understand that when I am done with earth certain of my books shall be buried with me. The list of these books will be found in the left-hand upper drawer of the old mahogany secretary in the front spare room. When I am done, I'd have no son Pounce on these treasures like a vulture; Nay, give them half My epitaph And let them share in my sepulture. Then when the crack Of doom rolls back The marble and the earth that hide me, I'll smuggle home Each precious tome Without a fear a wife shall chide me.