THERE was once a small boy with a large head and a frown above his short‐sighted eyes who, every Friday night in life, with a large bundle of books under his arm, passed through the grey streets of the town of Greenock. There was the look of a student about this pug‐nosed youngster, and decent motherly persons, marking his regular passages to and from the Watt Library, spoke of him as “an awfu' boy for books.” He seemed to such, no doubt, a scholar in embryo, a professor in the making; and you know what women are with the shy and retiring of the other sex. But had some knowing person stopped that earnest lad and examined a typical batch of titles, he would, I fear, have had to laugh at the preposterous variety of it, at the incredible mixture of good and bad with which the boy satisfied his craving to read.
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