Page:Stories from Old English Poetry-1899.djvu/11



OMETHING over twenty years ago, in a dusty garret filled with trunks, boxes, old articles of furniture, and all the other lumber in which our country garrets abound, a little girl was spending a rainy morning. I remember the child very well. She was just about eight years old, and had tangled masses of curly yellow hair, and big eyes always hungry for “something to read.” For in those days&mdash;two or three years more than twenty,&mdash;how very long ago that is!&mdash;there were not so many children&rsquo;s books as now. No children&rsquo;s magazines except “Old Merry&rsquo;s Museum,” and very few of the beautiful books in shining covers which are now written and printed expressly for the young folks.

The only books this little girl owned, and