"I admire the bindings," said the little fellow, as he paced to and fro along the shelf.
"I am gratified by your approval," was my indifferent reply.
"Particularly this one," he went on. "Let me see," he leaned far backward, and with much difficulty read the title: "'The Works of Sha-kés-peare.' I should like to read them."
"Very well," I answered politely.
"Much obliged," said he fiercely. "Please lend me an electric derrick!"
"Pardon my stupidity—let me take it down for you." I stepped to the book-case, laid the book upon the floor, and returned to my work. A silence then ensued, which lasted so long that I looked up to see how he was progressing.
He vas sitting on the shelf with his tiny legs hanging despairingly over a gulf of some six inches between himself and the floor.
He was afraid to jump and ashamed to ask help. Catching my eye, he laughed and said:
"I am rather out of training just now, and not fond of jumping!"
"Say no more!" I lifted him to the floor, and turned away; but only to be recalled by a faint ejaculation. His mishaps were truly ingenious. He was caught beneath the cover of the book.
"My foot slipped," he explained with some confusion; "but if it had n't, I believe I could have opened the book all by myself!"
"I will not leave you, now, until everything is in proper order," I replied; for it occurred to me that to have any accident happen to him might be a very perplexing thing. Opening the book, I picked him up gingerly between my fingers, first asking pardon for the liberty, and deposited him softly upon the first page of "The Tempest."
"Are you all right now?" I inquired, to make sure.
"I believe so," said he, as he began to read—running to and
