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If on a winter's night a library cardholder

Robin Camille Davis

Generated for NaNoGenMo 2016

Long ago, you read a book. It was an extraordinary book. You haven't thought about it in years, though, until this afternoon, when you remembered the book in a moment of drowsiness. That book! What was it called? Alas! You have forgotten the title.

But you feel sure that you could recognize it by sight, or at least in reading the first few pages. And surely one of the public libraries of New York City will have this book in their collections. You must find it; you must read it. It's only 4:00. You have time. You pocket your MetroCard and leave your apartment, heading to the nearest library branch.


You arrive at 112 East 96th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of 96th Street Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Quit Your Worrying!.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it has sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder height, So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high Can keep my own away from me. I have been wonderfully struck by the fact that in studying the Upanishads, and other sacred books of the East, there is practically no reference to the kind of worry that is the bane and curse of our Occidental world. In conversation with the learned men of the Orient I find this same delightful fact. Indeed they have no word in their languages to express our idea of fretful worry. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 9727 Seaview Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Jamaica Bay Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'History of the Constitutions of Iowa.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Here Constitution means not abstract philosophic principles of Government, but concrete political phenomena, that is, political facts. Our constitutional historians do not as a rule deal directly with the ultimate principles of government; but they are concerned rather with their progressive phenomenal manifestations in the assembly, the court, the office, the caucus, the convention, the platform, the election, and the like. Thus Constitutional History is simply a record of concrete political facts. It is, however, in the literature of Jurisprudence that the term "Constitution" is used in accordance with an exact definition. Constitutional Law, or the Law of the Constitution, means a very definite thing to the Jurist. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 380 Washington Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Clinton Hill Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Water Goats, and Other Troubles. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Ach!" he exclaimed angrily. "You are insulting to me mit such questions Toole. So much will I tell you--never ask Germans what is dongolas. It is not for Germans to talk about such things. Ask Casey." Casey scratched his head thoughtfully. "Dongolas?" he repeated. "I have heard th' word, Grevemeyer. Wait a bit! 'Tis something about shoes. Sure! I remimber, now! 'Twas dongola shoes wan of me kids had, last winter, an' no good they were, too. Dongolas is shoes, Grevemeyer--laced shoes--dongolas is laced shoes." The big mayor leaned his head far back and laughed long and loud. He pounded on the bar with his fist, and slapped Toole on the back. "Laced shoes!" he cried, wiping his eyes, and then he became suddenly serious. "'Twould not be shoes, Casey," he said gravely. "Thim dongolas was ricomminded by th' landscape-gardener from New Yorrk. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 291 West 231st Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Kingsbridge Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Plant Hunters: Adventures Among the Himalaya Mountains. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He was angry with Karl, for having made a fool of himself by turning patriot, or "rebel," as it pleases crowned monsters to term it. He had intended him for better things; a secretary to some great noble, a post in the Custom-house, or, may be, a commission in the bodyguard of some petty tyrant. Any of these would have fulfilled the ambitious hopes of Karl's father. The latter, therefore, was displeased with the conduct of his son. Karl had no hope from home, at least until the anger of the old man should die out. What was the young refugee to do? He found English hospitality cold enough. He was free enough; that is, to wander the streets and beg. Fortunately, he bethought him of a resource. At intervals, during his life, he had aided his father in the occupation of gardening. He could dig, plant, and sow. He could prune trees, and propagate flowers to perfection. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 25 Fourth Ave. at Pacific St., in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Pacific Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Up the Mazaruni for Diamonds,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Then there was "Jimmy." He was a negro, rather undersized and as black as the inside of a lump of coal. He appointed himself our special guardian, a sort of valet, overseer and servant. He looked after our personal belongings, cooked our food, made our tea and devoted himself exclusively to us. Twenty paddlemen were also engaged. Sixteen of them were quite as black as our Jimmy, and four of them were in varying shades from tobacco brown to light molasses candy tint. These latter were of mixed Dutch and Negro blood. "They are 'Bovianders,'" said the captain. "Queer tribal name," I commented. The captain laughed. "Not exactly a tribal name," he explained. "They live up the river quite a distance and so it is said that they come from 'above yonder. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 1385 East Gun Hill Road, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Eastchester Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Conestoga Wagons in Braddock's Campaign, 1755. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "[20] This makes a load of about 2,200 pounds,[21] quite in agreement with the statement in the Gentlemen's Magazine of August 1755, that loads were commonly around one ton. A load of one ton is small in comparison to those hauled by later wagons that sometimes carried as much as five or even six tons. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 2065 Flatbush Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Flatlands Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Where No Fear Was: A Book About Fear.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I want in this book to track it, if I can, to its lair, to see what it is, where its awful power lies, and what, if anything, one can do to resist it. It seems the most unreal thing in the world, when one is on the other side of it; and yet face to face with it, it has a strength, a poignancy, a paralysing power, which makes it seem like a personal and specific ill-will, issuing in a sort of dreadful enchantment or spell, which renders it impossible to withstand. Yet, strange to say, it has not exercised its power in the few occasions in my life when it would seem to have been really justified. Let me quote an instance or two which will illustrate what I mean. I was confronted once with the necessity of a small surgical operation, quite unexpectedly. If I had known beforehand that it was to be done, I should have depicted every incident with horror and misery. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 10 Jersey Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Mulberry Street Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Modern Religious Cults and Movements.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... III. FAITH HEALING IN GENERAL 82 The Bases of Faith and Mental Healing--Cannon's Study of Emotional Reactions--The Two Doors--The Challenge of Hypnotism--Changed Attention Affects Physical States--The Power of Faith to Change Mental Attitudes--Demon Possession--The Beginnings of Scientific Medicine--The Attitude of the Early and Medieval Church--Saints and Shrines--Magic, Charms, and the King's Touch: The Rise of the Faith Healer. IV. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 610 East 169th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Morrisania Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Scientific American Supplement, No. 514, November 7, 1885,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A monumental fountain is to be erected at Annaberg, and is to be surmounted by a statue of the country's benefactress, Barbara Uttmann. The statue, modeled by Robert Henze, is to be cast in bronze. It represents Barbara Uttmann in the costume worn at the time of the Reformation. She points to a piece of lace, which she has just completed, lying on the cushion, the shuttles being visible. Some point, Valenciennes, and Guipure laces are made on a cushion by hand, with bobbins on which the thread is wound, the pins for giving the desired pattern to the lace being stuck into the cushion. A yard of hand cushion lace has been sold in England for as much as $25,000. The annexed cut, representing the Barbara Uttmann statue, was taken from the Illustrirte Zeitung. * * * * * A Boston paper tells of a man who built two houses side by side, one for himself and one to sell. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 188 Madison Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Science, in Industry and Business Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled One Third Off. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In our part of the country in those days the leading citizens were prone to take offense at some of the things that were said of them in the public prints and given to expressing their sense of annoyance forcibly. When a high-spirited Southern gentleman, regarding whom something of a disagreeable nature had appeared in the news columns, entered the editorial sanctum without knocking, wearing upon his crimsoned face an expression of forthright irritation and with his right hand stealing back under his coat skirt, it was time for the offending reporter to emulate the common example of the native white-throated nut-hatch and either flit thence rapidly or hunt a hole. Since prohibition came in and a hiccup became a mark of affluence instead of a social error, as formerly, and a loaded flank is a sign of hospitality rather than of menace, things may have changed. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 725 St. Marks Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Brower Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Blackwoods Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 59, No. 365, March, 1846, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Zeus having spoken, up sprang, for his messenger, swift-footed Iris; And between Samos anon and the rocks of precipitous Imber Smote on the black sea-wave, and about her the channel resounded: Then, as the horn-fixt lead drops sheer from the hand of the islesman, Fatal to ravenous fish, plung'd she to the depth of the ocean: Where in a cavern'd recess, the abode of the sisterly Sea-nymphs, Thetis the goddess appear'd, in the midst of them sitting dejected; For she was ruefully brooding the fate of her glorious offspring, Doom'd to a Phrygian grave, far off from the land of his fathers. Near to her standing anon, thus summon'd her wind-footed Iris: "Thetis, arise! thou art called by Zeus whose decrees are eternal. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 309 New Dorp Lane, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of New Dorp Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Report on the Department of Ports and Harbours for the Year 1890-91. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The lightkeeper's cottages at Woody Island and one of the cottages at Inskip Point require some repairs, but with those exceptions the domiciles are in good order. The steamer "Llewellyn" has been recently surveyed, and, beyond the ordinary outlay, no expenditure is anticipated during the current year. In June last this vessel was instrumental in saving the brigantine "Hector," with eighty lives on board, from being wrecked on Breaksea Spit. In Great Sandy Strait and the Mary River there are no less than 50 lights, most of which are leading lights burning day and night. These lights keep two steam launches with their crews constantly at work attending to them; the system is elaborate, but very costly. BURNETT RIVER. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 60 East 5th Street,NY and find yourself on the steps of Windsor Terrace Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Warriors,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Is it not the consciousness of existence, together with a consciousness of the power of choice? Our individuality lies in the fact that we can decide, choose, and rule among the various contestant impulses of our souls. Herein is the possibility of victory and also the possibility of defeat. Looking inward, we find that Self began when man began. We inherit our dispositions from Adam, as well as from our parents and a long ancestral line. When the first men and women were created, forces were set in action which have resulted in this Me that to-day thinks and wills and loves. Heredity includes savagery and culture, health and disease, empire and serfdom, hope and despair. Each man can say: "In me rise impulses that ran riot in the veins of Anak, that belonged to Libyan slaves and to the Ptolemaic line. I am Aryan and Semite, Roman and Teuton: alike I have known the galley and the palm-set court of kings. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 2808 Gerritsen Ave., in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Gerritsen Beach Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Sabbath At Home.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And why should it be thought unreasonable that persons in our employment, and our children, who early notice the character of our religion, might receive some good impression, as to the nature of the Sabbath, by seeing us deny ourselves what on other days is innocent and right? I am not pleading that the Sabbath be made a day for afflicting our souls, but that we should not permit our sensual desires to interfere with our spiritual delight. On days of unusual political interest, we count it no sacrifice to be deprived of a regular meal, or to take of that which comes to hand, because our delight is elsewhere. Let the same interest be felt in the Sabbath, and we shall be equally loth to permit that, which might be done on Saturday, to interfere with our enjoyment and spiritual profit. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 95-06 Astoria Boulevard, in East Elmhurst, and find yourself on the steps of East Elmhurst Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Thrift,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Pages 233--258 CHAPTER XIII. GREAT DEBTORS. Greatness and debt--Seedy side of debt--Running up bills--Loan clubs--Genius and debt--Fox and Sheridan--Sheridan's debts--Lamartine--Webster--Debts of men of science--Debts of artists--Italian artists--Haydon--The old poets--Savage and Johnson--Steele and Goldsmith--Goldsmith's debts--Goldsmith's advice--Byron's debts--The burden of debt--Burns and Sydney Smith--De Foe and Southey--Southey and Scott--Scott's debts and labours--Great poor men--Johnson's advice--Genius and debt--Literary men. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 174 East 110th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Aguilar Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Scientific American Supplement, No. 481, March 21, 1885. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... | | in. | in. in. | 21/4 | 4 | 1,100 | 26 | 14 by 14 | 31/2 | 5 | 1,000 | 28 | 14 " 15 | 6 | 61/2 | 800 | 30 | 16 " 16 | 10 | 8 | 700 | 32 | 18 " 18 | ----------------------------------------------------------- Double Engines. ----------------------------------------------------------- Brake | | | | | Horsepower| Bore of | Revolutions| | | at 62 lb.| Cylinder. | per minute.| Height. |Floor Space.| Boiler | | | | | Pressure. | | | | | ----------|-----------|------------|---------|------------- | in. | | in. | in. in. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 103-34 Lefferts Boulevard, in Richmond Hill, and find yourself on the steps of Lefferts Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, July 23, 1892,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I prefer tipping to typhoid. Yours long sufferingly, VICTIM OF THE VESTRIES. SIR,--The Vestry is quite right to insist on every house burning up its own odds and ends. The true domestic motto is--"Every kitchen its own crematorium." I do this habitually, out of public spirit. It is true that a sickening odour permeates the house for an hour or two of every day, created by the combustion of dinner remnants; also that most of my family suffer from bad sore throats, which they attribute to this cause. What of that? The truly good Citizen will prefer to poison himself rather than his neighbours. A CLERKENWELL CATO. SIR,--I recently purchased Dodger's Digest of Dustbin Law, and recommend it to the perusal of every householder. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 187-05 Union Turnpike, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Hillcrest.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Adventures of Working Men. From the Notebook of a Working Surgeon, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "We were very quiet, Mary and I, as we strolled out of the churchyard, down one of the lanes; and then crossing a stile, we went through a couple of fields, and sat down on another stile, with the high hedge on one side of us and the meadow, that they were beginning to mow at the other end, one glorious bed of flowers and soft feathery grass. "Polly,' I says at last, breaking the silence, ain't this heavenly?' "And you feel better?' she says, laying her hand on mine. "Better!' I says, taking a long draught of the soft sweet-scented air, and filling my chest--better, old girl! I feel as if I was growing backwards into a boy.' "And you fifty last week!' she says. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 9612 Church Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of East Flatbush Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'A Short History of France.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Give us land," they said to the Romans, and when land was denied them and the gates of cities disdainfully closed upon their messengers, not land, but vengeance, was their cry; and hordes of half-naked barbarians trampled down the vineyards, and rushed, a tumultuous torrent, upon Rome. The Romans could not stand before this new and strange kind of warfare. The Gauls streamed over the vanquished legions into the Eternal City, silent and deserted save only by the Senate and a few who remained intrenched in the Citadel; and there the barbarians kept them besieged for seven months, while they made themselves at home amid uncomprehended luxuries. Of course Roman skill and courage at last dislodged and drove them back. But the fact remained that the Gaul had been there--master of Rome; that the iron-clad legions had been no match for his naked force, and a new sensation thrilled through the length and breadth of Gaul. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 35-51 81 Street, in Jackson Heights, and find yourself on the steps of Jackson Heights Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Memoir of Mary L. Ware, Wife of Henry Ware, Jr., it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Perhaps this reluctance always exists, particularly in regard to a woman and a mother. In this instance it has been very strong, and it is but just that it be made known. Never was there a woman, we may believe, more retiring or peculiarly domestic than she of whom we are to speak. Never, we are sure, were the materials of a life more entirely private, and in one sense confidential, than those which we are to use; for letters are all the materials we have, and letters written in the unrestrained freedom of personal friendship, in the midst of pressing cares, and with a rapidity and unstudied naturalness, which will appear in all the extracts, but are still more manifest in the entire originals. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 54-22 Skillman Avenue, in Woodside, and find yourself on the steps of Woodside Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. '"The ""Genius""",' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... They were beautiful but so distant. He invested them with more beauty than they had; the beauty was in his own soul. But he did not know that. One girl whose yellow hair lay upon her neck in great yellow braids like ripe corn, was constantly in his thoughts. He worshiped her from afar but she never knew. She never knew what solemn black eyes burned at her when she was not looking. She left Alexandria, her family moving to another town, and in time he recovered, for there is much of beauty. But the color of her hair and the wonder of her neck stayed with him always. There was some plan on the part of Witla to send these children to college, but none of them showed any great desire for education. They were perhaps wiser than books, for they were living in the realm of imagination and feeling. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 4790 Broadway, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Inwood Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Defenders,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Human beings had invented war, invented and manufactured the weapons, even invented the players, the fighters, the actors of the war. But they themselves could not venture forth, could not wage it themselves. In all the world--in Russia, in Europe, America, Africa--no living human being remained. They were under the surface, in the deep shelters that had been carefully planned and built, even as the first bombs began to fall. It was a brilliant idea and the only idea that could have worked. Up above, on the ruined, blasted surface of what had once been a living planet, the leady crawled and scurried, and fought Man's war. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2085 Honeywell Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of West Farms Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: A Journal of Impressions in Belgium. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... At Ostend the commission of inquiry whittled itself down to the one energetic person who had taken it out. And before we knew where we were our Ambulance Corps was accepted by the Belgian Red Cross. Only we had not got the ambulances. And though we had got some money, we had not got enough. This was really our good luck, for it saved us from buying the wrong kind of motor ambulance car. But at first the blow staggered us. Then, by some abrupt, incalculable turn of destiny, the British Red Cross, which had kicked us so persistently, came to our help and gave us all the ambulances we wanted. And we are off. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 117-11 Sutphin Boulevard, in Jamaica, and find yourself on the steps of Baisley Park Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Beyond the Black River.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I hadn't yet seen fifteen snows, but already my name was repeated about the council fires.' Balthus involuntarily recoiled, staring. It seemed incredible that the man walking tranquilly at his side should have been one of those screeching, blood-mad devils that had poured over the walls of Venarium on that long-gone day to make her streets run crimson. 'Then you, too, are a barbarian!' he exclaimed involuntarily. The other nodded, without taking offence. 'I am Conan, a Cimmerian.' 'I've heard of you.' Fresh interest quickened Balthus' gaze. No wonder the Pict had fallen victim to his own sort of subtlety. The Cimmerians were barbarians as ferocious as the Picts, and much more intelligent. Evidently Conan had spent much time among civilized men, though that contact had obviously not softened him, nor weakened any of his primitive instincts. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 3874 Sedgwick Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Van Cortlandt Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Brown Fairy Book.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 3060 Middletown Road, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Pelham Bay Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Perpetual Curate.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I did hesitate, I remember--it must have been my better angel: that is, my dear," he continued, recollecting himself, "I would have hesitated had it not been for you." Here there ensued a little pause. Mrs Morgan was not so young as she had been ten years ago, all which time she had waited patiently for the Fellow of All-Souls, and naturally these ten years and the patience had not improved her looks. There was a redness on her countenance nowadays which was not exactly bloom; and it stretched across her cheeks, and over the point of her nose, as she was painfully aware, poor lady. She was silent when she heard this, wondering with a passing pang whether he was sorry? But being a thoroughly sensible woman, and above indulging in those little appeals by which foolish ones confuse the calm of matrimonial friendship, she did not express the momentary feeling. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 127 Amsterdam Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Riverside Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt, 1725-1798. Volume 12: Return to Paris.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I naturally began to laugh, but on her mother calling the girl a little fool, and the brother adding that he had never committed such an indiscretion, the poor child began to tremble all over, and looked abashed. I reassured her as best I could, not caring whether what I said displeased her mother or not, and I endeavoured to instill into her principles of a very different nature to those in which she had been reared, while she listened with an eagerness which proved that her heart was still ready to learn the right way. Little by little her face cleared, and I saw that I had made an impression, and though I could not flatter myself that any good I might do her would be lasting in its effects as long as she remained under the bad influence of her mother, I promised to come and sup with her next evening, "but on the condition," I said, "that you give me a plain meal, and one bottle of chambertin only, for you are not too well off. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 20 West 53rd Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Donnell Library Center.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Princess Virginia, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Again the Grand Duchess lapsed into silence. Yet her expression did not suggest a stricken mind. She merely appeared astonished, with an astonishment that might turn into an emotion more agreeable. Meanwhile it was left for Virginia to look vexed, vexed with herself. She wished that she had not betrayed her poor little foolish secret--so shadowy a secret that it was hardly worthy of the name. Yet it had been precious--precious since childhood, precious as the immediate jewel of her soul, because it had been the jewel of her soul, and no one else had dreamed of its existence. Now she had shown it to other eyes--almost flaunted it. Never again could it be a joy to her. In the little room, half study, half boudoir, which was her own, there was a desk, locked in her absence, where souvenirs of the young Emperor of Rhaetia had been accumulating for years. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 340 Bushwick Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Bushwick Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Doré Bible Gallery, Volume 4. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... For he was wiser than all men; than Ethan the Ezrahite, and Heman, and Chalcol, and Darda, the sons of Mahol: and his fame was in all nations round about. And he spake three thousand proverbs: and his songs were a thousand and five. And he spake of trees, from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall: he spake also of beasts, and of fowl, and of creeping things, and of fishes. And there came of all people to hear the wisdom of Solomon, from all kings of the earth, which had heard of his wisdom.--2 Kings iv, 29-34. THE JUDGMENT OF SOLOMON. Then came there two women, that were harlots, unto the king, and stood before him. And the one woman said, O my lord, I and this woman dwell in one house; and I was delivered of a child with her in the house. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 1265 43rd Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Borough Park Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Sun Dance of the Blackfoot Indians.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Those women, who, during the past season, promised "to come forward to the tongues" now fulfil their vows by public declarations addressed to the setting sun. The pole raisers then approach from the four quarters, erecting first the sun pole and then the rafters, with as much speed as possible. The medicine woman then returns to her tipi and the father with his male companions goes into a sweathouse. Sixth Day. In the morning, a booth is erected in the dancing lodge for the medicinemen, or weather dancers. Later in the day, they approach, with processions made up of their respective bands, and take their places in the booth. At various times during the day, they dance to the sun. People also come up to be painted and prayed for. As a rule, the medicine-pipes are brought out for these men to bless and smoke. During the afternoon, the "digging dance" occurs, when the fireplace is made and the fire kindled. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 5 Central Avenue, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of St. George Library Center.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Street Called Straight.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In the effort she made there was a mingling of the matter-of-fact and the tour de force. Regimental life is not unlike that of a large family; it has the same sort of claims, intimacies, and quarrels, the same sort of jealousies within, combined with solidarity against the outsider. Perceiving this quickly, Drusilla proceeded to disarm criticism by being impeccable in dress and negatively amiable in conduct. "With my temperament," she said to herself, "I can afford to wait." Following her husband to Barbados, the Cape, and India, she had just succeeded in passing all the tests of the troop-ship and the married quarters when he died. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1197 Sutter Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Cypress Hills Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Journal d'un sous-officier, 1870.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A la reflexion, je me rejouissais que la signature de mon pere sanctionnat le premier acte solennel de ma vie. Quant a lui, mon engagement avait ete jusque-la si loin de sa pensee, qu'il n'avait pas songe a verifier l'etendue de ses droits. Neanmoins il eprouva quelque satisfaction d'apprendre que son autorite pouvait prevaloir sur ma resolution. Il ne se dedit point toutefois, et se disposa a m'accompagner sur-le-champ. Or nous rencontrames a notre porte un de mes camarades qui, peu de jours auparavant, m'avait precisement expose de belles theories sur l'impot direct du sang. Mon pere lui ayant dit le but de notre course, quelle ne fut pas ma surprise en le voyant s'exclamer: Henri Roland developpa, pour me detourner de mon projet, tous les sophismes que l'ingenieux interet personnel sait invoquer. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 193-20 Horace Harding Expressway, in Fresh Meadows, and find yourself on the steps of Fresh Meadows Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Man Who Drove the Car,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Upstairs on the landings men in white aprons were carrying plants in pots, and building up banks of roses; while higher up still stood Lord Crossborough himself--the gentleman I had driven from the Carlton--shouting to them to do this and to do that, smoking a cigar as long as your arm, and all the time as merry as a two-year-old at a morning gallop. As for the young ladies, they had taken off their cloaks, and all wore pretty gowns, same as they would wear for any party in that part of the world, and they were standing by his lordship's side, apparently just as much amused as he was. What astonished me in particular was this nobleman's affability towards me, for he cried out directly he saw me, and implored me for heaven's sake to get the padlock off the area gate, or, says he, "I'm d--d if they won't be cooking the ducks in the drawing-room. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 249-01 Northern Boulevard, in Little Neck, and find yourself on the steps of Douglaston/Little Neck Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer — Volume 6. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... With all the speed he could muster, he rushed into the house, and, calling his servants, ordered them to expel the intruder, and drive him at once outside the demesne. When the mandate was made known to the old piper, it was with the greatest difficulty he could be brought to comprehend it--for, time out of mind, his approach had been hailed with every demonstration of rejoicing; and now--but no; the thing was impossible--there must be a mistake somewhere. He was accordingly about to recommence, when a second and stronger hint suggested to him that it were safer to depart. "Maybe the 'carl' did na like the pipes," said the highlander musingly, as he packed them up for his march. "Maybe he did na like me;" "perhaps, too, he was na in the humour of music. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 3650 Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Kings Bay Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Amateur Gardencraft: A Book for the Home-Maker and Garden Lover, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I have not attempted to tell all about gardening, for there is much about it that I have yet to learn. I expect to keep on learning as long as I live, for there is always more and more for us to find out about it. That's one of its charms. But I have sought to impart the fundamental principles of it as I have arrived at a knowledge of them, from many years of labor among trees, and shrubs, and flowers--a labor of love--and it is with a sincere hope that I have not failed in my purpose that I give this book to THE HOME-MAKER AND THE GARDEN-LOVER. THE AUTHOR. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 41-17 Main Street, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Flushing Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Snare, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Presently the ground sloped, and the troop descended from the heights by a road flanked with dripping pinewoods, black and melancholy, that for a while screened them off from the remainder of the sodden world. Thence they emerged near the head of the bridge that spanned the swollen river and led them directly into the town of Regoa. Through the mud and clay of the deserted, narrow, unpaved streets the dragoons squelched their way, under a super-deluge, for the rain was now reinforced by steady and overwhelming sheets of water descending on either side from the gutter-shaped tiles that roofed the houses. Inquisitive faces showed here and there behind blurred windows; odd doors were opened that a peasant family might stare in questioning wonder--and perhaps in some concern--at the sodden pageant that was passing. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 72-33 Vleigh Place, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Kew Gardens Hills Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Best Psychic Stories.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The earliest literature relates the appearance of the spirits of those who have died as coming back to comfort or to take vengeance on the living, but always as sentient, intelligent, and with an interest in the earth they have left. All through the centuries the wraith has survived in literature, has flitted pallidly across the pages of poetry, story and play, with a sad wistfulness, a forlorn dignity. A double relation exists between the literature and the records of the Psychical Research Society. Lacy Collison-Morley, in his Greek and Roman Ghost Stories, speaks of the similarity between ancient tales of spirits and records of recent instances. "There are in the Fourth Book of Gregory the Great's Dialogues a number of stories of the passing of souls which are curiously like some of those collected by the Psychical Research Society," he says. Possibly human personality is much the same in all lands and all times. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 209 West 23rd Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Muhlenberg Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Fathers of New England: A Chronicle of the Puritan Commonwealths.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But at last new and imperative reasons arose, demanding a third removal, not to another city in Holland, but this time to the New World called America. They were breaking under the great labor and hard fare; they feared to lose their language and saw no opportunity to educate their children; they disapproved of the lax Dutch observance of Sunday and saw in the temptations of the place a menace to the habits and morals of the younger members of the flock, and, in the influences of the world around them, a danger to the purity of their creed and their practice. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 134-26 225 Street, in Laurelton, and find yourself on the steps of Laurelton Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Akbar: An Eastern Romance.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He zealously studied under the care of his father; and in his seventeenth year, towards the end of 1574, he was presented to the Emperor Akbar by his brother Faizi. Owing to the birth of his eldest surviving son Salim, at Sikri, in 1570, Akbar had made that place a royal abode. He built a palace and other splendid edifices there, and it became one of his favourite places of residence. It was called Fathpur Sikri. Thither Akbar went after his campaign in Bihar in 1574, and there his intimacy with Abu-l Fazl commenced. It was at this time that the memorable Thursday evening discussions began. Akbar's resolution was to rule with even hand men of all creeds in his dominions, and he was annoyed by the intolerance and casuistry of the Ulamas or learned men of the predominant religion. He himself said, "I have seen that God bestows the blessings of His gracious providence upon all His creatures without distinction. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 8 Thomas S. Boyland Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Saratoga Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Henrik Ibsen.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Afterwards, when I read about the guillotine, I always thought of those saws," said the poet, whose earliest flight of fancy seems to have been this association of womanhood with the shriek of the sawmill. In 1888, just before his sixtieth birthday, Ibsen wrote out for Henrik Jaeger certain autobiographical recollections of his childhood. It is from these that the striking phrase about the scream of the saws is taken, and that is perhaps the most telling of these infant memories, many of which are slight and naive. It is interesting, however, to find that his earliest impressions of life at home were of an optimistic character. "Skien," he says, "in my young days, was an exceedingly lively and sociable place, quite unlike what it afterwards became. Several highly cultivated and wealthy families lived in the town itself or close by on their estates. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 7430 Amboy Road, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Tottenville Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue at Christmas Tree Cove. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "We can take turns seesawing." "That'll be fun!" said Charlie. "Can't we get another board and make another seesaw?" asked Harry. "We can't all get on that one. It'll break." "I guess we can find another board," said Bunny. "I'll go and ask my mother." "No!" said Sue quickly. "You'd better not, Bunny!" "Why?" asked her brother, in surprise. "'Cause if you go in now mother will know we didn't go to the store, and she might not like it. We'd better go now and let Charlie and Harry and Sadie and Mary have the teeter-tauter until we come back," suggested Sue. "It'll hold four, our board will, but not six." Bunny Brown thought this over a minute. "Yes, I guess we had better do that," he said. Then, speaking to his playmates, he added: "We have to go to the store, Charlie, Sue and I. You can play on the seesaw until we come back. And then, maybe, we can find another board, and make two teeters." "I have a board over in my yard. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 328 East 67th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of 67th Street Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Life at Puget Sound: With Sketches of Travel in Washington Territory, British Columbia, Oregon and California.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... It was just at sunrise; and we cast longing looks at the soft green hills, bathed in light. Now it is gone, and we have only the wide ocean again. But a new color has appeared in the water,--a purplish pink, which looks very tropical; and there are blotches of yellow seaweed. Some of it caught in the wheel, and stopped it. The sailors drew it up, and gave it to the children to taste. It was like a little fruit, and they say the birds eat it. The sea is growing quite rough. I was thinking of being a little afraid, the vessel plunged so; but Mother Cary's chickens came out, and I thought I might as well consider myself as one of them, and not in any more danger than they are. CARIBBEAN SEA, May 28, 1865. We have had a great experience of really rough weather. The spray dashed over the deck, and only the hardiest could keep up. Any one who tried to move was thrown off his feet. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 196-36 Northern Boulevard, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of East Flushing Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... L'archéologie égyptienne, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Les gens aises, marchands, employes secondaires, chefs d'ateliers, etaient loges plus au large. Leurs maisons etaient souvent separees de la rue par une cour etroite: un grand couloir s'ouvrait au fond, le long duquel les chambres etaient rangees (Fig.3). Plus souvent, la cour etait garnie de chambres sur trois cotes (Fig.4); plus souvent encore la maison presentait sa facade a la rue. C'etait alors un haut mur peint ou blanchi a la chaux, surmonte d'une corniche, et sans ouverture que la porte, ou perce irregulierement de quelques fenetres (Fig.5). La porte etait souvent de pierre, meme dans les maisons sans pretentions. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 10-43 41 Ave, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Queensbridge Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Peril Finders.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "But that makes it so bad for you, fa," said Chris, with something of his father's bitterness of tone. "How are you ever going to get a practice together if people will be so horribly healthy?" "What!" cried the doctor. "Horribly healthy, indeed! Why, you wicked young ruffian, do you suppose that I want people to be ill? Thank goodness that it is such a paradise of beauty and health. Don't I have people come from a hundred miles round with their accidents--broken limbs and cuts?" "Doctor Lee," said the other boy, who had been sitting on a flour-barrel very silent and thoughtful and with his brow puckered up, while his voice sounded eager and inquiring. "What is it, sir? Are you going to defend Chris?" "No, sir; I wasn't thinking about what he said, but about the way everything we have planted fails. I can't understand it. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 503 West 145th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Hamiton Grange Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled King of Camargue. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Begone, pagan, begone!" she added, trying to counterfeit courage. "Of the three holy women," continued the gipsy, "who took ship, after the death of Jesus Christ, to escape the crucifying Jews, one was like myself, an Egyptian and a fortune-teller. She knew the science of the Magi, of those with whom great Moses contended for mastery in witchcraft. She could, at will, order the frogs to be more numerous than the drops of water in the swamps, and she held in her hand a rod which, at her word, would change to a viper. Before Jesus she bowed, as did Magdalen, and Jesus loved her too. In the tempest, as they were crossing the sea, her wand pointed out the course to follow, and, to do that with safety, had no need to be very long. Must you have more pledges of my power and my knowledge? What more must I tell you to induce you to give me the oil I need so much? If you were a man, I would say: 'Look! I am dark, but I am beautiful! ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 396 Clinton Sreet, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Carroll Gardens Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean A Yankee from the West: A Novel.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In the yard sat an aged man beneath an old apple tree. The place was a mingling of the old and the new, a farm-house with an extension for summer boarders. As the stranger entered the gate, a tall, heavy, but graceful old woman stepped out upon the veranda. "Wasn't that Steve Hardy that you rode up with?" she asked, gazing at him. The visitor bowed, and was about to answer when she snapped: "Oh, don't come any of your bowin' and scrapin' to me. All I want is the truth." "The man didn't tell me his name, madam." "Well, you didn't lose anythin'. It was Steve Hardy, and a bigger liar never trod luther. Come in." The visitor stepped upon the veranda, and sat down upon a bench. The old woman stood looking at him. "Do you want board?" she asked. He took off his hat and placed it upon the bench beside him. She gazed at his bronzed face, his white brow, and grunted: "I asked if you wanted board. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 98-30 57 Avenue, in Corona, and find yourself on the steps of Lefrak City Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Historical Essays,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... One of the most brilliant surgeons I ever knew, the originator of a number of important surgical methods, who, being physician as well, was remarkable in his expedients for saving life when called to counsel in grave and apparently hopeless cases, desired to write a book embodying his discoveries and devices, but said that the feeling was strong within him that he must begin his work with an account of medicine in Egypt, and trace its development down to our own time. As he was a busy man in his profession, he lacked the leisure to make the preliminary historical study, and his book was never written. Men of affairs, who, taking "the present time by the top," are looked upon as devoted to the physical and mechanical sciences, continually pay tribute to our art. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 169-09 137 Avenue, in Jamaica, and find yourself on the steps of Rochdale Village Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Record of Medals of Honor issued to the officers and enlisted men of the United States Navy, Marine Corps and Coast Guard, 1862-1923.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... If the official award of the medal of honor to the applicant, or the official notice to him thereof, shall appear to show that the medal of honor was awarded to the applicant for such an act as is required by the provisions of this act, it shall be deemed sufficient to entitle the applicant to such special pension without further investigation. Otherwise all official correspondence, orders, reports, recommendations, requests, and other evidence now on file in any public office or department shall be considered. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 2740 Barnes Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Allerton Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'A Synopsis of the American Bats of the Genus Pipistrellus.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Nevertheless, the two specimens are clearly referable to their respective species and show no tendency toward intergradation. Consequently, confidence is felt in treating Pipistrellus hesperus and Pipistrellus subflavus as two distinct species. The most recent report upon geographic variation throughout the entire species, Pipistrellus hesperus, was that by Hatfield (Jour. Mamm., 17:257-262, August 14, 1936). Later, as explained below in the account of P. h. australis, Burt (Miscl. Publ., Mus. Zool., Univ. Michigan, 39:25, February 15, 1938) examined specimens from Sonora, Mexico, and for them and for specimens from southern Arizona proposed a different nomenclatural arrangement. Illustration: FIG. 1. Map showing the geographic ranges of species and subspecies of Pipistrellus. 1. Pipistrellus h. hesperus 2. Pipistrellus h. merriami 3. Pipistrellus h. australis 4. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 79-50 Bell Boulevard, in Bayside, and find yourself on the steps of Windsor Park Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Dingo Boys: The Squatters of Wallaby Range.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And as he watched the men, and his eyes wandered inland toward where he could see faint blue mountains beyond dark green forests, he asked himself whether he had done right in realising the wreck of his property left after he had been nearly ruined by the proceedings of a bankrupt company, and making up his mind at fifty to start afresh in the Antipodes, bringing his wife, daughter, and niece out to what must prove to be a very rough life. "Have I done right?" he said softly; "have I done right?" "Yes," said a voice close to him; and his brother's hand was laid upon his arm. "Yes, Ned, and we are going to make the best of it." "You think so, Jack?" said the captain, eagerly. "Yes. I was dead against it at first." "You were." "Horribly. It meant giving up my club--our clubs, and at our time of life working like niggers, plunging into all kinds of discomforts and worries; but, please God, Ned, it's right. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 280 Cadman Plaza West, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Brooklyn Heights Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Notes and Queries, Number 24, April 13, 1850.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I find it stated, moreover, on the authority of Sir G. Paul's Life of Whitgift, that Cartwright acknowledged the generosity of Whitgift, and admitted "his bond of duty to the Archbishop to be so much the straiter, as it was without any desert of his own. "--Carwithen's History of the Church of England, i. 527. 2nd edit. Lest this should not suffice to convict Mr. Cunningham of error, I will adduce two extracts from The Life of Master Thomas Cartwright, written by the Presbyterian Sa. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 38-23 104 Street, in Corona, and find yourself on the steps of Corona Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: History, Manners, and Customs of the North American Indians.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Being fond of solitude, he had resolved, having the means of following out his plans, to purchase a small estate, and a few sheep; he should then be employed in the open air, and doubted not that opportunities would occur, wherein he could make himself useful in the neighbourhood. There was, also, another motive that much influenced him in his plans. His mind had for some time been deeply impressed with divine things, and he yearned for that privacy and repose, which, while it would not prevent him from attending on God's worship, would allow him freely to meditate on His holy word, which for some time had been the delight of his heart. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1215 Morrison Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Clason's Point Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'No Defense, Complete.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In spite of the strong boots she wore they were alert, delicate, and shapely, and all her beauty had the slender fullness of a quail. When she saw Dyck, she stopped suddenly, her mouth slightly open. She gave him a sidelong glance of wonder, interest, and speculation. Then she threw her head slightly back, and all the curls gathered in a bunch and shook like bronze flowers. It was a head of grace and power, of charm and allurement--of danger. Dyck was lost in admiration. He looked at her as one might look at a beautiful thing in a dream. He did not speak; he only smiled as he gazed into her eyes. She was the first to speak. "Well, who are you?" she asked with a slightly southern accent in her voice, delicate and entrancing. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 320 City Island Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of City Island Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Blood of the Arena. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "He's all right--as much of a gabbler as ever." "Are there any additions to the family? Any expectations?" "No--not even that." He made a fingernail crackle between his teeth with a strong negative expression and then began returning the questions to the new arrivals, of whose life he knew nothing beyond their inclination for the art of bull-fighting. "And how is your family--all right? Well, glad to hear it. Sit down and have something." Then he inquired about the condition of the bulls that were to be fought within a few hours, for all these friends had come from the plaza and from seeing the separation and penning in of the animals; and, with professional curiosity, he asked news of the Cafe Ingles, a favorite gathering place of bull-fight fans. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 175 North End Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Battery Park City Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Bygone Church Life in Scotland. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Several improvements were made in Edinburgh during his reign, including the enlargement of St Giles's Cathedral; hence it is possible that he also took in hand the adornment of the neighbouring Cross. Under James VI., previously to his becoming Sovereign of Great Britain, further alterations were made. In 1555 we read of work at the Cross consisting of "bigging the rowme thereof," which is supposed to mean that at this time the open arches which upheld the platform were filled in, so as to form an enclosed "rowme" below. This room was entered by a door, which was secured with a lock; so that thenceforward only those having some high and official duty to perform, such as publishing a royal proclamation, could ascend to the broad base of the Cross. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 98-27 Metropolitan Avenue, in Forest Hills, and find yourself on the steps of North Forest Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Factory Boy, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He was passing along the sidewalk, when he heard a tap on the window of a house close by, and, looking up, he saw Mrs. Miles beckoning to him. She had a bundle rolled up in a towel, which she told him to give his mother, and tell her she would have company in the evening. And true enough, just as Ella was safely in bed, there was a knock at the humble door, and Mrs. Miles walked in, followed by her husband. Johnny had never seen this gentleman except in the factory; and then he looked very grave as he talked with the men or with merchants who came from the city. Now it was very different. His young wife had told him a pitiful story about the widow; and he came prepared to help her. "So you were lucky to-day, Johnny, and found a dollar," he began, taking the silver piece from his pocket. "I have made inquiries for you, and can find no one who claims it; so I think you may keep it with a good conscience. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 660 Soundview Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Soundview Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Fighting France.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 118-14 Hillside Avenue, in Richmond Hill, and find yourself on the steps of Richmond Hill Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Mark Mason's Victory.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Thank you. Uncle Solon, where are you staying?" "Ahem! I am stopping up town." "Shall you be in the city long?" "I don't think so." "Mother would like very much to see you. She would like to ask about grandfather's estate." "Ah--um--yes! Where do you live?" "No. 174 St. Mark's Place, near First Avenue." "We'll call if we can. Edgar, we'll have to hurry away." As they walked toward the other side of the park at a brisk pace, Tom asked: "You don't mean to say that's your uncle, Mark?" "Yes; that is, he married my mother's sister." "And that young swell is your cousin?" "Yes." "He is rich, isn't he?" "I suppose so." "Why don't he do something for you and your mother?" "He was always a very selfish man. But we don't ask any favors--mother and I don't. All we ask is justice." "What do you mean by that? ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 192 East Broadway, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Seward Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Prologue to an Analogue, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "The timing is all wrong, but the fact is a fact. It must be a fact, or every operative we have should be Siberianized. "We must, of course, act. The action must be immediate. We are zeroed in...." "No!" Vlada heard himself speak, and his whole body was outraged at the action. He stood white, trembling. But he had spoken, and try as he would, the word could not be pulled back. "No? My little dove, and what would you suggest, then, if we are not to defend ourselves from this capitalistic aggression? That we shall sit with our hands folded and allow them to dictate the terms of our surrender? Speak!" "Send them a pest-sub, and see if they can handle the bacteria we have developed!" Vlada's throat was dry, and his voice was not his own. No power on earth could have made him open his mouth, but he had opened it, and he fully expected the lightning to strike him at that moment. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 2115 Ocean Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Kings Highway Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Die hauptsächlichsten Theorien der Geometrie.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Thales ist in der That der erste, der sich damit beschaeftigt hat, die von den Aegyptern entdeckten Saetze und einige andere streng zu beweisen. Jedoch erhob sich die Geometrie unter seinen Haenden noch nicht zur wahren Wissenschaft; diese Wuerde erlangte sie erst {5} durch die Untersuchungen des Pythagoras (nach einigen 569-470, 580-500 nach anderen) und seiner Schueler. Ungluecklicher Weise aber bestand eine der Regeln, welche die Pythagoraeer strenge beobachten mussten, darin, dass sie die Lehren, welche der Meister vortrug, geheim halten mussten; daher kam es, dass der geometrische Teil derselben allen, die nicht dieser Schule angehoerten, unbekannt blieb. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 7 Wolcott Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Red Hook Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Aphorisms and Reflections from the Works of T. H. Huxley.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... XXXI That which is to be lamented, I fancy, is not that society should do its utmost to help capacity to ascend from the lower strata to the higher, but that it has no machinery by which to facilitate the descent of incapacity from the higher strata to the lower. XXXII Time, whose tooth gnaws away everything else, is powerless against truth. XXXIII Misery is a match that never goes out. XXXIV Genius as an explosive power beats gunpowder hollow; and if knowledge, which should give that power guidance, is wanting, the chances are not small that the rocket will simply run amuck among friends and foes. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 132 Canal Street, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Stapleton Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean A Little Bush Maid.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He was fond and proud of Jim--glad that the boy was growing up straight and strong and manly, able to make his way in the world. But Norah was his heart's desire. Of course she was spoilt--if spoiling consists in rarely checking an impulse. All her life Norah had done pretty well whatever she wanted--which meant that she had lived out of doors, followed in Jim's footsteps wherever practicable (and in a good many ways most people would have thought distinctly impracticable), and spent about two-thirds of her waking time on horseback. But the spoiling was not of a very harmful kind. Her chosen pursuits brought her under the unspoken discipline of the work of the station, wherein ordinary instinct taught her to do as others did, and conform to their ways. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 1664 W. 13th St. at Kings Highway, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Highlawn Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: A Daughter of Eve.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Under such training the two Maries would either have become mere imbeciles, or they must necessarily have longed for independence. Thus it came to pass that they looked to marriage as soon as they saw anything of life and were able to compare a few ideas. Of their own tender graces and their personal value they were absolutely ignorant. They were ignorant, too, of their own innocence; how, then, could they know life? Without weapons to meet misfortune, without experience to appreciate happiness, they found no comfort in the maternal jail, all their joys were in each other. Their tender confidences at night in whispers, or a few short sentences exchanged if their mother left them for a moment, contained more ideas than the words themselves expressed. Often a glance, concealed from other eyes, by which they conveyed to each other their emotions, was like a poem of bitter melancholy. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 222 East 79th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Yorkville Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: A Fool and His Money. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Moreover, when I foolishly mentioned my snug fortune as an extra inducement, she put me smartly in my place by remarking that fortunes like wine are made in a day while really excellent jeweller's clerks are something like thirty years in the making. Which, I take it, was as much as to say that there is always room for improvement in a man. I confess I was somewhat disturbed by one of her gentlest remarks. She seemed to be repeating my Uncle Rilas, although I am quite sure she had never heard of him. She argued that the fortune might take wings and fly away, and then what would be to pay! Of course, it was perfectly clear to me, stupid as I must have been, that she preferred the jeweller's clerk to a fortune. I was loth to lose her as a typist. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 144-20 243 Street, in Rosedale, and find yourself on the steps of Rosedale Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Red Rose and Tiger Lily; Or, In a Wider World.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Dear old nursey," said Nan; she rushed up the stairs, shouting her old nurse's name as she went; her quick footsteps flew down the long corridor, she pushed open the baize door which separated the nurseries from the rest of the house, and in a moment found herself in the old room. Nan's nurse was a cherry-cheeked old woman of between sixty and seventy years of age. "Eh, my darling, and how did you get back without me hearing the sound of the carriage wheels!" she exclaimed. "Eh dear, eh dear, I meant to be down on the front steps to greet you, Miss Nan. Eh, but you look bonny, and let me examine your hair, dear--I hope they cut the points regular. If they don't, it will break away and not keep even." "Oh, don't bother about my hair now," said Nan. "What does hair signify when a child has just got home, and when she wants a kiss more than anything else in the world? ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 37-44 21 Street, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Long Island City Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Odes of Anacreon.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

...' The fatal bow the urchin drew; Swift from the string the arrow flew; Illustration] Oh! swift it flew as glancing flame And to my very soul it came! 'Fare thee well,' I heard him say, As laughing wild he wing'd away: 'Fare thee well, for now I know The rain has not relax'd my bow; It still can send a maddening dart, As thou shalt own with all thy heart!' ODE IV. Strew me a breathing bed of leaves, Where lotos with the myrtle weaves; And while in luxury's dream I sink, Let me the balm of Bacchus drink! In this delicious hour of joy, Young Love shall be my goblet-boy; Folding his little golden vest, With cinctures, round his snowy breast, Himself shall hover by my side, And minister the racy tide! ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 280 Cadman Plaza West, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Business & Career Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Works of Guy de Maupassant, Volume 3, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Neither reply nor smile, alas! But his eyes dilated, and glistened like the last flame that shoots up from an expiring fire, and filled them with a world of dying thoughts, of divine recollections, of delirious love. They appeared to envelope her in kisses, they spoke to her, they thanked her, they followed her movements, and seemed delighted at her grief. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 25-01 Jackson Avenue, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Court Square Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Red Saunders' Pets and Other Critters. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... We swore awful, still we wouldn't have missed their company for a fair-sized farm. "And now comes in the first little twist of the Big Bend Ranch, proper--all these things I'm telling you were the eggs. Here's where the critter pipped. "'Twas November, and such a November as you don't get outside of Old Dakota, a regular mint-julep of a month, with a dash of summer, a sprig of spring, a touch of fall, and a sniff or two of winter to liven you up. If you'd formed a committee to furnish weather for a month, and they'd turned out a month like that, not even their best friends would have kicked. And here we'd been makin' hay, and makin' hay, the ranch people thanking Providence that prairie grass cures on the stem, while we cussed, for we were sick of the sight of hay. I got so the rattle of a mower give me hysterics. We were picked because we were steady and reliable, but one day we bunched the job. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 158-21 Jewel Avenue, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Pomonok Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Has Anyone Here Seen Kelly?. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But the main purpose, survival, had been forgotten. Now being the Crew was an end in itself. Kelly could imagine the Crew business going on and on until finally even the material bodies in the bunkroom would be forgotten entirely and allowed to rot away to dust about which the Crew would no longer care. And that was very bad. It should not have worked out this way. But it was not too late to do something, shake them out of the Lotus dream. He checked the scopes again. Now the second planet revealed plenty of breathable atmosphere settled in the lower valleys. He headed straight for it. The Crew was soon going to get one devil of a jolt! He put the ship into a close orbit around the planet. It seemed nothing but a fearsome forest of oxydized spikes rising in corrosive silence, with here and there a lean slash of valley. There was no indication of life, no vegetation visible or revealed by the scopes. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 560 Lexington Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Terence Cardinal Cooke–Cathedral Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... An Inquiry Into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Of the Expense of supporting the Dignity of the Sovereign 342 Conclusion of the Chapter ib. CHAP. II. Of the Sources of the general or Public Revenue of the Society 343 PART I. Of the Funds or Sources of Revenue which may particularly belong to the Sovereign or Commonwealth ib. PART II. Of Taxes 347 ART. I. Taxes upon rent; Taxes upon the Rent of Land 348 Taxes which are proportioned, not to the Rent, but to the Produce of Land 352 Taxes upon the Rent of Houses 354 ART. II. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 1985 Westchester Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Parkchester Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Unhappy Far-Off Things.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... It seemed an animal totally wild, and utterly afraid of man. Grey bare hills surrounded the waste: a partridge called far off: evening was drawing in. He rose wearily, and yet with a certain fervour, as one that pursues With devotion a lamentable quest. Looking round him as he left his resting-place he saw a cabbage or two that after some while had come back to what was a field and had sprouted on the edge of a shell-hole. A yellowing convolvulus climbed up a dead weed. Weeds, grass and tumbled earth were all about him. It would be no better when he went on. Still he went on. A flower or two peeped up among the weeds. He stood up and looked at the landscape and drew no hope from that, the shattered trunk of a stricken tree leered near him, white trenches scarred the hillside. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 9424 Fourth Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Fort Hamilton Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Retrospect of Western Travel, Volume I (of 2).' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Of course, we presently recollected several reasons why it was well that we had another day. There were two letters which it was highly desirable I should write from Liverpool rather than from New-York; and the children had never before found leisure to show me the cupboards and shelves where they kept their playthings; so that, if the wind had been fair, I should actually have gone away without seeing them. We sauntered all the afternoon in the Zoological Gardens, and, as we returned, caught each other looking up at every weathercock we passed. In the evening our visiters dropped in, each ready with a speculation as to how the wind would be to-morrow. On the morrow the weathercock told no better news; and a note was on the breakfast-table which informed us that there was no chance of our sailing that day. I was now really sorry. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1701 Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Sedgwick Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Werwolves,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Taking, then, the actual existence of werwolves to be an established fact, it is, of course, just as impossible to state their origin as it is to state the origin of any other extraordinary form of creation. Every religious creed, every Occult sect, advances its own respective views--and has a perfect right to do so, as long as it advances them as views and not dogmatisms. I, for my part, bearing in mind that everything appertaining to the creation of man and the universe is a profound mystery, cannot see the object on the part of religionists and scientists in being arbitrary with regard to a subject which any child of ten will apprehend to be one whereon it is futile to do other than theorize. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 118 Eames Place, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Jerome Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... People You Know, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... On the Evening already mentioned she had a Cluster of Geniuses on hand. They were expected to Talk for a couple of Hours, so as to work up an Appetite for Neapolitan Ice-Cream and Lady-Fingers. In the course of time they got around to the Topic of Modern Music. All agreed that the Music which seemed to catch on with the low-browed Public was exceedingly punk. They rather fancied "Parsifal" and were willing to concede that Vogner made good in Spots, but Mascagni they branded as a Crab. As for Victor Herbert and J.P. Sousa--back to the Water-Tanks! Illustration: They Love It.] A little later in the Game the Conversation began to Sag and it was suggested that they have Something on the Piano. They gathered around the Stack of Music and then Vogner went into the Discard and Puccini fell to the Floor unnoticed and the Classics did not get a Hand. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2521 Glebe Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Westchester Square Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Wilton School; or, Harry Campbell's Revenge, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... For those happy and treacherous nights, spent in looking over the bay at Malta for her husband's home-coming, had sown the seeds of a consumption, that each month now seemed to be increasing its wasting, rapid strides. Yet at Wilton she seemed revived and better than she had been for long; and Alan grew more cheerful and hopeful that, if God pleased, her life, with care and watching, might be spared. So he took rooms at the farm for a length of time; sent his boy, now grown into a young image of his stout father, to a grammar-school in the village, and determined that, as the place agreed with her so well, Minnie should make it her home, even when he went to sea. And once more their happiness lost the cloud of doubt and anxiety that for long had been hanging over it. But the dream was soon to be snapt. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 8508 51st Ave, in Manhattan and find yourself on the steps of Elmhurst Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Dorothy at Skyrie.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Her tongue had proved fully as nimble as her fingers, and now while she rested she began afresh: "Ma says I could talk the legs off an iron pot, if I tried, and I guess you're thinkin' so too. Never mind. Can't help it. Ain't it queer to be adopted? There was a power of money, real, good money, offered for you, wasn't there! My heart! Think of one girl bein' worth so much to anybody! It was all in the papers, but ma says likely we never would have noticed it, only Mis' Satterlee she showed it to ma, account of Mis' Chester moving up here an' going nigh crazy over losin' you. Ma she washes for the Satterlees, and they give us their old papers. Pa he loves to read. Ma says he'd rather set an' read all day than do a stroke to earn an honest livin'. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 81 Devoe Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Leonard Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Ein Kampf um Rom: Historischer Roman. Zweiter Band. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Nun, sieh: es war dein eigner Gewinn. Alles, was du dies Jahr aus meinem besten Garn gesponnen, ist dein; ich schenk' es dir zur Aussteuer: so brauchst du naechstes Jahr, das erste deiner Ehe, nicht zu spinnen." Das Maedchen fasste ihre Hand und sah ihr dankbar weinend ins Auge. "Und dich nennen sie streng und hart!" war alles, was sie sagen konnte. - "Mild mit den Guten, streng mit den Boesen, Liuta. Alles Gut, dessen ich hier walte, ist meines Herrn Eigen und meines Knaben Erbe. Da heisst es genau sein. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 203 Arlington Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Arlington Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Eagle's Nest, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Not content with looking, he must needs take it up to count how many legs it had. "One, two, three, four." John was very fond of counting, especially at lesson-times. But there was one important item that he left out of his calculations--the sting! "Oh! oh! It hurts! it hurts!" shouted the little boy, as he hopped about the room nursing his thumb. "You silly child! If you had only been obedient and done what I told you, instead of playing with the wasp," began Miss Thompson. Then she remembered that it really was a waste of breath pointing out a moral to a boy who was shouting and sobbing, so that he could not hear a word she said. "You had better go to the nursery," she added, "and have something put on your hand. No, you need not do any more lessons before dinner. You can go out into the garden, and your sisters will join you when they have finished. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 22 Linden Boulevard, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Flatbush Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Paliser case.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Now I dislike to be a nuisance myself, but in view of the war, it is necessary that there should be another Paliser, if not here, at least en route." "I will think it over," said this charming young man, who had no intention of doing anything of the kind. "The quicker the better then, and while you are at it select a girl with good health and no brains. They wear best. I did think of Margaret Austen for you, but she has become engaged. Lennox his name is. Her mother told me. Told me too she hated it. Said you must come to dinner and she'd have a girl or two for you to look at. Oblige me by going. Plenty of others though. Girls here are getting healthier and stupider and uglier every year. By Gad, sir, I remember----" The old man rambled on. He was back in the days when social New York foamed with beauty, when it held more loveliness to the square inch than any other spot on earth. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 60-05 Main Street, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Queensboro Hill Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Female Wits. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Since there was only one theatre in London from 1682 to 1695, she wrote for Thomas Betterton, Elizabeth Barry, Anne Bracegirdle, Edward Kynaston, and other veterans in the Betterton company, who were the prototypes for the characters in the early heroic plays. She could have known no others. When Betterton seceded from the Theatre Royal in 1695 and set up the independent theatre in Lincoln's Inn Fields, Mrs. Manley, already committed to Drury Lane because of her first play, gave Drury Lane The Royal Mischief even though it had been written for the Betterton company. Circumstances, then, dictated that The Royal Mischief was finally played by the actors for whom it had been written originally. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 92-24 Rockaway Boulevard, in Ozone Park, and find yourself on the steps of Ozone Park Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Great Ghost Stories,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted--that I had a strong desire to examine a house with so equivocal a reputation--that I should be greatly obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege whatever he might be inclined to ask. "Sir," said Mr. J----, with great courtesy, "the house is at your service, for as short or as long a time as you please. Rent is out of the question. The poor old woman who died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been known to some of my family, and had once been in such good circumstances that she had rented that house of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever induce to remain in the house. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 14-01 Astoria Boulevard, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Astoria Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Harrison's Amusing Picture and Poetry Book,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Illustration] I little thought that thus forlorn, In deserts I should bide; And have not where to lay my head, Amid the World so wide. Illustration] Dear lady, she cries, and tears trickle down, Relieve a poor beggar, I pray; I've wander'd all hungry about the wide town, And have not eat a morsel to-day. Illustration] Ah! there it falls, and now 'tis dead, Poor harmless little thing; The shot went through its pretty head, And broke its little wing. Illustration] He looks of a strong hardy race, And his bonnet and jacket of plaid; With shrewdness and sense in his face, Proclaim him a true scottish lad. Illustration] Oh! ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 151-10 14 Road, in Whitestone, and find yourself on the steps of Whitestone Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Terror: A Mystery. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... These causes have been evident enough and have been openly discussed and deplored. But behind them was something of infinitely greater moment. We lacked men, but men were pouring into the new army; we were short of shells, but when the shortage was proclaimed the nation set itself to mend this matter with all its energy. We could undertake to supply the defects of our army both in men and munitions--if the new and incredible danger could be overcome. It has been overcome; rather, perhaps, it has ceased to exist; and the secret may now be told. I have said my attention was attracted by an account of the death of a well-known airman. I have not the habit of preserving cuttings, I am sorry to say, so that I cannot be precise as to the date of this event. To the best of my belief it was either towards the end of May or the beginning of June 1915. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 830 Huguenot Avenue, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Huguenot Park Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Concerning the Spiritual in Art.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Again, let us take the case of the definitely religious picture. Footnote: Religion, in the sense of awe, is present in all true art. But here I use the term in the narrower sense to mean pictures of which the subject is connected with Christian or other worship. It is not often that children draw religious scenes. More often battles and pageants attract them. But since the revival of the religious picture is so noticeable a factor in the new movement, since the Byzantines painted almost entirely religious subjects, and finally, since a book of such drawings by a child of twelve has recently been published, I prefer to take them as my example. Daphne Alien's religious drawings have the graceful charm of childhood, but they are mere childish echoes of conventional prettiness. Her talent, when mature, will turn to the charming rather than to the vigorous. There could be no greater contrast between such drawing and that of--say--Cimabue. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 69-70 Grand Avenue, in Maspeth, and find yourself on the steps of Maspeth Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled On the Supply of Printed Books from the Library to the Reading Room of the British Museum. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... This can only be secured by perspicuity in describing them. "In my humble judgment, no better mode could possibly be devised for immediately obtaining any particular work, than the printed tickets you have suggested. By specifying the Titles from the Catalogue, and copying from it the Press-marks, the applicant can at once identify the particular edition, or copy of an edition, which he requires. The importance of this to a critical student is obvious; and I cannot shew the utility of the new system more forcibly, than by saying that I have often, formerly, been assured that a book was not in the Museum, though I had myself referred to it only a few days before. The requisition to insert the Titles and Press-marks on the tickets is not merely reasonable, but it is indispensible, if the Library is to be conducted with satisfaction to the Public and to the Librarians. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 910 Morris Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Melrose Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled A Discourse Concerning Ridicule and Irony in Writing (1729). Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Dr Rogers himself has acknowledg[ed] to his Bookseller who sent it to him into the Country, that he has receivd it; but says that he is so engaged in other affairs, that he has no thought at present of answering it; tho he may perhaps in time do so. [8] In time Rogers did. He counterattacked on 2 February 1728 with a Vindication of the Civil Establishment of Religion. [9] For Collins this work was a dogged repetition of what had gone before, and so it could be ignored except for one of its appendices, A Letter from the Rev. Dr. Marshall jun. To the Rev. Dr. Rogers, upon Occasion of his Preface to his Eight Sermons. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 56 Giffords Lane, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Great Kills Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Best American Humorous Short Stories.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... George Pope Morris (1802-1864) was one of the founders of The New York Mirror, and for a time its editor. He is best known as the author of the poem, Woodman, Spare That Tree, and other poems and songs. The Little Frenchman and His Water Lots (1839), the first story in the present volume, is selected not because Morris was especially prominent in the field of the short story or humorous prose but because of this single story's representative character. Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) follows with The Angel of the Odd (October, 1844, Columbian Magazine), perhaps the best of his humorous stories. The System of Dr. Tarr and Prof. Fether (November, 1845, Graham's Magazine) may be rated higher, but it is not essentially a humorous story. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 214-20 Northern Boulevard, in Bayside, and find yourself on the steps of Bayside Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Barbarism of Berlin. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... These sincere and high-minded peace-lovers are always telling us that citizens no longer settle their quarrels by private violence; and that nations should no longer settle theirs by public violence. They are always telling us that we no longer fight duels; and need not wage wars. In short, they perpetually base their peace proposals on the fact that an ordinary citizen no longer avenges himself with an axe. But how is he prevented from revenging himself with an axe? If he hits his neighbour on the head with the kitchen chopper, what do we do? Do we all join hands, like children playing Mulberry Bush, and say, "We are all responsible for this; but let us hope it will not spread. Let us hope for the happy day when we shall leave off chopping at the man's head; and when nobody shall ever chop anything for ever and ever. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 361 Lewis Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Macon Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled For Jacinta. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Austin accordingly busied himself with his papers, and it was an hour later when he went on deck. The Estremedura had gone to sea by then, and the lights of the little Spanish town blinked above the broad fringe of surf astern. High above her the great black cordillera cut hard and sharp against the luminous blueness of the night, and the long heave of the Atlantic flashed, white-topped, beneath the moon ahead. She swung over it with slanted spars and swaying funnel, while the keen trade-breeze sang in her rigging, and now and then a flying-fish ricocheted, gleaming, from sea-top to sea-top beneath her side. She was very well kept above decks, a trim, yacht-like vessel, and for a while Austin leaned over her quarter-rails, smoking a cigarette, and wondering when Miss Jacinta Brown would come up on deck. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 1702 60th Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Mapleton Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Cave Boy of the Age of Stone. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... It shows his big body and his long head and his little ears." "That is the very bear that made us run," said Burr, laughing. All this time Strongarm had been making a picture of wild horses. He now held up the picture, scratched on a piece of deer antler. "See, this horse has his ears up," he said. "He heard me coming. Here I am with my spear." Burr and the boys crowded round and said, "Oh!" While Strongarm and the boys were making pictures, the baby had been tumbling about on the floor. She crept around or pulled herself to her feet by holding to the rough places in the wall. After a while she grew sleepy; then her mother took her in her arms and sang this song: "Little child! Little sweet one! Little girl! Though a baby, Soon a-hunting after berries Will be going. Little girl! Little sweet one! Little child! ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2150 University Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Francis Martin Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Women of Tomorrow. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... How the preparation for life does lengthen itself out! When Judge Story was professor at Harvard in the thirties of the last century, he put the law into his pupils' heads in eighteen months. The present professors require three years. In 1870 the Harvard Medical School made you attend classes for four months in each of three years. It now makes you do it for nine months in each of four years. As for engineering, the University of Wisconsin gave John a chill by informing him in its catalogue that "it is coming to be generally recognized that a four-year technical course following the high-school course is not an adequate preparation for those who are to fill important positions; and the University would urge all those who can afford the time to extend their studies over a period of five or six years." John compromised on five. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 444 Amsterdam Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of St. Agnes Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Roughing It, Part 5.. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... We three had the same right to relocate the lead that other people had, provided we were quick enough. ] As midnight was announced, fourteen men, duly armed and ready to back their proceedings, put up their "notice" and proclaimed their ownership of the blind lead, under the new name of the "Johnson." But A. D. Allen our partner (the foreman) put in a sudden appearance about that time, with a cocked revolver in his hand, and said his name must be added to the list, or he would "thin out the Johnson company some." He was a manly, splendid, determined fellow, and known to be as good as his word, and therefore a compromise was effected. They put in his name for a hundred feet, reserving to themselves the customary two hundred feet each. Such was the history of the night's events, as Higbie gathered from a friend on the way home. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 1617 Richmond Road, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Dongan Hills Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Power Of The Popes,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... For the rest, the falsity of this piece is according to Fleury more universally recognized than that of the decretals of Isidore: and if the donation of Constantine could still preserve any credit, to strip it of such credit, it would be sufficient to transcribe it: here follow some lines: "We attribute to the see of St. Peter all the dig- "nity, all the glory, all the authority of the imperial "power. Furthermore we give to Sylvester and to "his successors our palace of the Latran, which is "incontestibly the finest palace on earth; we give "him our crown, our mitre, our diadem, and all "our imperial vestments: we transfer to him the "imperial dignity. We bestow on the Holy Pontiff "in free gift the city of Rome and all the western "cities of Italy; also the western cities of every "other country. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 57-04 Marathon Parkway, in Little Neck, and find yourself on the steps of North Hills Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Packing and Portaging. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... When purchasing a light-weight tent, see that the dealer supplies a bag of proper size in which to pack it. A pack cloth 6 x 7 feet in size, of brown waterproof canvas weighing about 3-1/2 pounds, makes an excellent covering for the tent floor at night. On the portage blankets and odds and ends will be packed and carried on it. If one end and the two sides of the pack cloth are fitted with snap buttons it may be converted into a snug sleeping bag with a pair of blankets folded lengthwise, the bottom and sides of the blanket secured with blanket safety pins as a lining for the bag. My standby for summer camping is a fine all-wool gray blanket 72 x 78 inches in size and weighing 5-1/2 pounds. This I have found sufficient even in frosty autumn weather--always, in fact, until the weather grows cold enough to freeze streams and close them to canoe navigation. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 89-11 Merrick Boulevard, in Jamaica, and find yourself on the steps of Queens Central Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Life and Correspondence of David Hume, Volume I (of 2),' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... '" I have the pleasing task of removing the painful feelings which, as this writer justly observes, must attend the belief in such a rumour, by saying that I could not find it justified by a single sentence in the letters of the Scottish clergy contained in these papers, or in any other documents that have passed under my eye. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 155 East 173rd Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Grand Concourse Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Twice Lost. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... As it was fully believed that she would not yield without fighting, the ship was cleared for action; the crew went to their quarters, and all stood ready should we sight her, which we might do at any moment. On glided our ship over the dark waters, her masts towering to the sky like some phantom of the night. A strange feeling came over me as I thought that in a few minutes we might be hotly engaged in firing away at the enemy, round shot and bullets flying about us. "Sail right ahead, sir!" shouted the second lieutenant from forward. I looked out eagerly, and saw the tall masts and sails of a ship fully as large as, if not larger than, the Heroine. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 4100 Lowerre Place, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Wakefield Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'A Novelist on Novels,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I should not even wonder if, by request of the municipality of Burton-on-Trent, it were found desirable to infuse a democratic element into the sub-committee by adding the manager of the Army and Navy Stores and, of course, Mr Bottomley. Do not protest: Mr Bottomley has recently passed embittered judgments, under the characteristic heading 'Dam-Nation,' on Mr Alec Waugh, who ventured, in a literary sketch, to show English soldiers going over the top with oaths upon their lips and the courage born of fear in their hearts. I think Mr Bottomley would like to have Mr Waugh shot, and the editor of The Nation confined for seven days in the Press Bureau, for having told the truth in literary form. I do not impugn his judgment of what it feels like to go over the top, for he has had long experience of keeping strictly on the surface. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 66 Leroy Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Hudson Park Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Mark of the Beast. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Her dark eyes were turned quickly up to his, a new and eager light flashed in them. "Do you know," she said, her tone low enough to be caught only by him, "that it was only the expectation of meeting you, and hearing you talk of the occult, of that wondrous mysticism of the East, that made me accept the invitation to this house--that is, I should add, at this particular time, for I had arranged to go to my glorious Hungarian hills this week." Colonel Youlter searched her face eagerly. Had she spoken the tongue of flattery, or of the mere conventional? He saw she had not, and he began to regard her with something more than the mere curiosity with which he had anticipated meeting her. In his callow days he had been romantic to a degree. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2525 Coney Island Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Homecrest Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Lawyers, A Drama in Five Acts.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Reiss. To ours, of which I am the director, and you a trustee. Clar. That will not do. Reiss. If it be our will--- Clar. It must not be our will. Reiss. Who is to oppose us? Clar. The rules of the foundation itself; right and equity. The hospital, ad Sanctum Mauritium, is destined for the old and the sick; we must not displace them. No, I will carry on the suit against you as an unlawful heir.-- Reiss. Aye, thou good Lord in heaven! the will is so plain-- Clar. If I am cast, I will take Brunnig's children into my house, and then I will immediately engage in more business, employ more hands, and work hard to accomplish my design, with the aid of heaven. Reiss. But your son, the deputy, approves of the children being sent to the hospital. Clar. I do not approve of it. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 33 East Broadway, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Chatham Square Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: A Middy of the King: A Romance of the Old British Navy.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I ought, perhaps, to inform you that in the event of your deciding to act upon my advice it will be necessary for you to take up your quarters temporarily aboard the receiving hulk, but this inconvenience will be more than compensated by the knowledge that you will gain. For myself, I am putting up at the `George' in the High Street, and it will be well for you to report yourself to me there upon your arrival. I have written to your father, explaining everything; I need therefore add nothing to this beyond the expression of the hope that you may be able to avail yourself to the fullest extent of this splendid opportunity for gaining a great deal of most useful knowledge in a very short time.--Yours sincerely, Henry Vavassour. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 1000 St. Nicholas Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Washington Heights Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Art of Letters.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And how he takes advantage of his opportunities! He remains to the end something of a Puritan in his standards and his public carriage, but in his diary he reveals himself as a pig from the sty of Epicurus, naked and only half-ashamed. He never, it must be admitted, entirely shakes off his timidity. At a crisis he dare not confess in English even in a cipher, but puts the worst in bad French with a blush. In some instances the French may be for facetiousness rather than concealment, as in the reference to the ladies of Rochester Castle in 1665: Thence to Rochester, walked to the Crowne, and while dinner was getting ready, I did then walk to visit the old Castle ruines, which hath been a noble place, and there going up I did upon the stairs overtake three pretty mayds or women and took them up with me, and I did baiser sur mouches et toucher leur mains and necks to my great pleasure; but lord! ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 617 DeKalb Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Marcy Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Jimgrim and Allah's Peace.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Then there are thousands of Arabs, living in hovels because there's nothing better, who have been to America and brought back memories with them. All that accounts for the desire for an American mandate--which would be a very bad thing, though, because the moment we set up a government we would lose our chance to be disinterested. The country is better off under any other mandate, provided it gives Americans the right to teach without ruling. America's mission is educational. There's an American, though, who might seem to prove the contrary. Do you see him?" There were two Arabs in the room, talking in low tones over by the window. I could imagine the smaller of the two as a peddler of lace and filigree-silver in the States, who had taken out papers for the sake of privilege and returned full of notions to exploit his motherland. But the tall one--never. He was a Bedouin, if ever a son of the desert breathed. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at Fifth Avenue at 42nd Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Stephen A. Schwarzman Building.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Animal Ghosts; Or, Animal Hauntings and the Hereafter, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The artist, whoever he was, had a more than human knowledge of cats--he portrayed not merely their bodies but their souls. Footnote 1: I have subsequently met several people who experienced the same phenomena in the house, which was standing a short time ago. "In style the front of the house was somewhat castellated. Two semicircular bows, or half towers, placed at a suitable distance from each other, rose from the base to the summit of the edifice, to the height of four or five stairs; and were pierced, at every floor, with rows of stone-mullioned windows. The flat wall between had larger windows, lighting the great hall, gallery, and upper apartments. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 92-06 156 Avenue, in Howard Beach, and find yourself on the steps of Howard Beach Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Wind Bloweth, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The only thing to break the silence up here was the cry of an occasional bird, the plaintive call of the plover, the barking of an eagle, the note of the curlew, a whinny as of a horse of Lilliput, the strange noise a pheasant makes and it rising from the heather: whir-r-r, like a piece of elastic snapping. Barring these you'd hear nothing at all. And barring a mountainy man or woman, and they cutting turf, you'd meet nothing unless it were the sheep. You'd never hear the sheep, and you coming; you'd turn a wee bluff in the hill, and there they were looking, a long, solemn, grayish-white line, with aloof, cold eyes. You could never faze them. They'd look at you cool as anything, and "What license have you to be here?" you'd think they were saying. Very stupid, but unco dignified, the sheep. But up to the top of the mountain, where wee Shane was going, you'd find no sheep; too bare and rocky there. There'd be nothing there but a passing bird. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 16-26 Cross Bay Boulevard, in Broad Channel, and find yourself on the steps of Broad Channel Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Joyful Heart, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Thus the joy of anticipatory creation is akin to pain. It holds no such pure bliss as actual creation. When you are in full swing, what you have just finished (unless you are exhausted) seems to you nearly always the best piece of work that you have ever done. For your critical, inhibitory apparatus is temporarily paralyzed by the intoxication of the moment. What makes so many artists fail at these times to enjoy a maximum of pleasure and a minimum of its opposite, is that they do not train their bodies "like a strong man to run a race," and make and keep them aboundingly vital. The actual toil takes so much of their meager vitality that they have too little left with which to enjoy the resulting achievement. If they become ever so slightly intoxicated over the work, they have a dreadful morning after, whose pain they read back into the joy preceding. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 250-06 Hillside Avenue, in Bellerose, and find yourself on the steps of Bellerose Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Ladies' Knitting and Netting Book.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... ) Fasten on your silk at the bottom of the thumb, and net 4 extra stitches for a gusset; net 5 rounds, in the 6th decrease 2 stitches of the 4; net 10 or 12 rounds according to the size required. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 191-05 Linden Boulevard, in St Albans, and find yourself on the steps of St. Albans Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Games Without Music for Children.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A] For song 'Washing Dishes,' see Appendix I. 4. WEIGHING Scales and weights are required for this game. Before commencing let the children see the different weights, and hold them one after the other in their hands. The following rhymes may assist the scholars to remember the various weights: 1. First comes the [1]ounce weight, small and round, Sixteen of these do make a [2]pound. 2. Four ounces [3]quarter-pound will be; [4]Half-pound has eight ounces, you see. The four weights given above will be sufficient at first for little children, but more may be added as they become familiar with these. When the scholars have learnt to distinguish the pound, ounce, &c., they may come out in turn and weigh various objects. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 4207 18th Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Kensington Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: In Greek Waters: A Story of The Grecian War of Independence. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... You shirk all your duties as a large land-owner; but this duty, at least, you cannot shirk. Let me see, to-day is Monday; on Wednesday our gig shall be over here at half-past twelve, and you shall come over and lunch with me. I will have Miss Hendon there; she is in all respects suitable for you. She is fairly pretty, and very bright and domesticated, with plenty of common sense. She won't have any money; for although her father's estate is a nice one, she has four or five brothers, and I don't suppose Mr. Hendon lays by a penny of his income. However, that matters very little. Now you must rouse yourself for a bit. This is an important business, you know, and has to be done. After it is over you will find it a great comfort, and your wife will take all sorts of little worries off your hand. Of course if you don't like Mary Hendon when you see her, I will find somebody else. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 155-06 Roosevelt Ave., in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of McGoldrick Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled A Night on the Borders of the Black Forest. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Ah, yes; but it would throw me two days later." "Not if you made up for lost time by taking the train from Heidelberg." He hesitated. "I should like it," he said. "Then why not do it?" "Well--yes--I will do it. I will go with you. There! let us shake hands on it, and be friends." So we shook hands, and it was settled. The shadows were now beginning to lengthen; but the sun still blazed in the heavens with unabated intensity. Bergheim, however, strode on as lightly, and chatted as gaily, as if his day's work was only just beginning. Never was there so simple, so open-hearted a fellow. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 850 E. 59th Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Paerdegat Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Abraham Lincoln. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... One Abraham Lincoln, grandfather of the President and apparently a grandson of Samuel, crossed the mountains from Virginia in 1780 and settled his family in Kentucky, of which the nearer portions had recently been explored. One morning four years later he was at work near his cabin with Mordecai, Josiah, and Thomas, his sons, when a shot from the bushes near by brought him down. Mordecai ran to the house, Josiah to a fort, which was close to them. Thomas, aged six, stayed by his father's body. Mordecai seized a gun and, looking through the window, saw an Indian in war paint stooping to pick up Thomas. He fired and killed the savage, and, when Thomas had run into the cabin, continued firing at others who appeared among the bushes. Shortly Josiah returned with soldiers from the fort, and the Indians ran off, leaving Abraham the elder dead. Mordecai, his heir-at-law, prospered. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2550 Victory Boulevard, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Todt Hill–Westerleigh Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Americanism of Washington, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The men who were able to surrender themselves and all their interests to the pure and loyal service of their ideal were the men who made good, the victors crowned with glory and honor. The men who would not make that surrender, who sought selfish ends, who were controlled by personal ambition and the love of gain, who were willing to stoop to crooked means to advance their own fortunes, were the failures, the lost leaders, and, in some cases, the men whose names are embalmed in their own infamy. The ultimate secret of greatness is neither physical nor intellectual, but moral. It is the capacity to lose self in the service of something greater. It is the faith to recognize, the will to obey, and the strength to follow, a star. Washington, no doubt, was pre-eminent among his contemporaries in natural endowments. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 431 6th Ave., in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Park Slope Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The New England Magazine Volume 1, No. 6, June, 1886, Bay State Monthly Volume 4, No. 6, June, 1886. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... This was made the more certain by the special qualification of the teachers of these sciences. Professor Dewey was distinguished by his lectures and experiments in natural philosophy and chemistry. Professor Eaton early gave lectures in mineralogy, geology, and botany. He was a pioneer in these departments of science, and an enthusiast whose spirit easily kindled a like spirit in others. To pursue his favorite studies he had forsaken the profession of law. It was his custom to take his classes into the fields and woods and there interrogate Nature. Emmons, the younger Hopkins, Tenney, and Chadbourne were teachers of similar spirit. Aided by the instruction of such men the natural sciences have been studied with a zeal which has become traditional at Williams. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 5902 23rd Ave., in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Ryder Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Secret of a Happy Home (1896).'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... It should follow naturally that men, to whose hearts the stomach is the shortest thoroughfare, would, in a body, resort to hotels for daily food. There is but one satisfactory explanation of the unphilosophical fact that the substantial citizen who, during a domestic interregnum, makes the experiment of three meals a day for one month at the best restaurant in New York City (and there are no better anywhere) returns with gladness and singleness of heart to his own extension-table--and that were I to put the question "Contract Cookery or Home Cookery?" to the few Johns who deign to peruse these lines, the acclaim would be--"Better, as everyday fare, is a broiled beefsteak and a mealy potato at home, than a palatial hotel and ten courses. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 446 Third Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Kips Bay Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Early Israel and the Surrounding Nations.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Egypt, Assyria, and Babylonia have yielded up their dead; Arabia, Syria, and Asia Minor are preparing to do the same. The tombs and temples of Egypt, and the papyri which have been preserved in the sandy soil of a land where frost and rain are hardly known, have made the old world of the Egyptians live again before our eyes, while the clay books of Babylonia and Assyria are giving us a knowledge of the people who wrote and read them fully equal to that which we have of Greece or Rome. And yet we are but at the beginning of discoveries. What has been found is but an earnest of the harvest that is yet in store. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 108-19 71 Avenue, in Forest Hills, and find yourself on the steps of Forest Hills Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Ten Years Later.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... What annoys you, my child, is that I laugh while you are writing; and what you are afraid of is that Madame de Saint-Remy, your mother, should come up here, as she does sometimes when we laugh too loud, that she should surprise us, and that she should see that enormous sheet of paper upon which, in a quarter of an hour, you have only traced the words Monsieur Raoul. Now, you are right, my dear Louise, because after these words, 'Monsieur Raoul,' others may be put so significant and so incendiary as to cause Madame de Saint-Remy to burst out into fire and flames! Hein! is not that true now?--say." And Montalais redoubled her laughter and noisy provocations. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 303 Avenue X, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Gravesend Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Impressions of America.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He spoke with great fluency, in a voice now and then singularly musical, and only once or twice made a scarcely perceptible reference to notes." The lecture was under the auspices of a local Literary Society, and the principle residents of the district turned out "en masse." The Chairman, the Rev. John Park, in introducing the lecturer, said there were two reasons why he was glad to welcome him, and he thought his own feelings would be shared by the audience. They must all plead guilty to a feeling of curiosity, he hoped a laudable one, to see and hear Mr. Wilde for his own sake, and they were also glad to hear about America--a country which many might regard as a kind of Elysium. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 518 West 125th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of George Bruce Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Clock Strikes Thirteen.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Well, all right," Mr. Parker consented. "It's pretty late though. The big clock's striking midnight." As the car halted for a traffic light, they both listened to the musical chimes which preceded the regularly spaced strokes of the giant clock. Penny turned her head to gaze at the Hubell Memorial Tower, a grim stone building which rose to the height of seventy-five feet. Erected ten years before as a monument to one of Riverview's wealthy citizens, its chimes could be heard for nearly a mile on a still night. On one side, its high, narrow windows overlooked the city, while on the other, the cultivated lands of truck farmers. "How strange!" Penny murmured as the last stroke of the clock died away. "What is strange?" Mr. Parker asked gruffly. "Why, that clock struck thirteen times instead of twelve!" "Bunk and bosh!" "Oh, but it did!" Penny earnestly insisted. "I counted each stroke distinctly. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 581 Mother Gaston Boulevard, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Stone Avenue Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Scapegoat.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... For that reason, he was willing to double my present salary. So I accepted. Nan, of course, was furious, even though I pointed out the extra dough meant we could start planning again. She didn't calm down until I promised to quit the job after six months. * * * * * Yes, it was always something. She was right enough about that. But she had no right to make such an issue of things. I started to tell her that, then stopped. Maybe she was picking a quarrel to make me forget about the old man and the story. I threw a fast block into my resentment. "Honey," I said, "don't be unreasonable. Remember this job with Jones was supposed to get Tommy away from the city, and the extra dough was all part of that big plan for the teaching business." "What plan?" she flared. "There never was a plan except to pamper your vanity! Big-shot Potter, the whiz-bang newspaperman! ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1044 Eastern Parkway, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Eastern Parkway Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Psycho-Phone Messages.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A striking feature of these communications is their freedom from restraint imposed by popular opinion. They contain neither theories nor appeals. Warnings are uttered concerning events and their inevitable reactions. The psycho-phonic waves, by which the messages are imparted, are as definite as those received by wireless methods. FRANCIS GRIERSON. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 12143 Flatlands Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Spring Creek Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Menorah Journal, Volume 1, 1915.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In their due proportion they should (although they do not) form a part of the outfit of every educated man. That they should be especially cultivated by Jewish young people is self-evident, and, for several thousand years, they have been. You Menorah men have taken the modern form of association for the purpose of carrying on these studies, of cherishing your Jewish ideals along with your general culture or with your chosen profession, and it was high time that you should do so. You already count thousands of young people, and as time goes on you will gradually increase in number. From among your group will come the future leaders of the Jewish people in America, and your main body will form our intellectual backbone. It is my hope and belief that your movement will gradually tend toward the maintenance and promotion of Judaism in this land. We are now a population of nearly three million souls. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 93 Saint Edwards Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Walt Whitman Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Our Philadelphia,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 206 South Avenue, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Mariner's Harbor Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Chronicles of Clovis, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

...' "It was certainly no mortal fox. It stood more than twice as high, had a short, ugly head, and an enormous thick neck. "'It's a hyaena,' I cried; 'it must have escaped from Lord Pabham's Park.' "At that moment the hunted beast turned and faced its pursuers, and the hounds (there were only about six couple of them) stood round in a half-circle and looked foolish. Evidently they had broken away from the rest of the pack on the trail of this alien scent, and were not quite sure how to treat their quarry now they had got him. "The hyaena hailed our approach with unmistakable relief and demonstrations of friendliness. It had probably been accustomed to uniform kindness from humans, while its first experience of a pack of hounds had left a bad impression. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 6802 Fort Hamilton Parkway, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of McKinley Park Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Hero of Garside School,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And that is all I do know, for mother never speaks of it, and I can't keep boring her with questions. How did it happen?" "Well, no one knows exactly. So far as could be made out, some pirate--some furrin sneak--got into his cabin while we were in port, and got at his private despatches. He was imprisoned in the hold by the captain's orders. The next day we were to make for Gibraltar, where the spy was to be tried by court-martial. The next night was a dirty one--no rain to speak of, but dark and blustery. While it was at its height, the prisoner in the hold managed to escape, and jumped overboard. Your father was one of the first to see him, and leapt after him. He reached the poor wretch and held him till the boat put out; then a fiercer gust of wind came, and they were separated. The spy was swept in the direction of the boat. Your father was swept away from it. The spy was caught up and dragged into it. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 107 Norman Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Greenpoint Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Datchet Diamonds. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But it was not to be. Mr. Paxton, glancing about him from side to side of the pier, observed her on a sudden--and he observed Mr. Lawrence too; on which trivial accident hinges the whole of this strange history. Miss Strong knew that she was seen. She saw that Mr. Paxton was coming to her. Her heart began to beat. In another second or two he was standing in front of her with uplifted hat, wearing a not very promising expression of countenance. "Where's Charlie?" was his greeting. The lady was aware that the question in itself conveyed a reproach, though she endeavoured to feign innocence. "Charlie's at home; I couldn't induce her to come out. Her 'copy' for Fashion has to be ready by the morning; she says she's behind, so she stayed at home to finish it." "Oh!" That was all that Mr. Paxton said, but the look with which he favoured Mr. Lawrence conveyed a very vivid note of interrogation. "Cyril," explained Miss Strong, "this is Mr. Lawrence. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 1637 Central Avenue, in Far Rockaway, and find yourself on the steps of Far Rockaway Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Queen Against Owen. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... 'Her only surviving relative was a nephew, John Lewis, who had been for a considerable time in Australia, but, having made some money, returned to England, and arrived at Porthstone on the evening of the first of June. 'The accused, Eleanor Margaret Owen, is an orphan, her father, the late Rector of Porthstone having died two years ago.' ('Poor old Owen! I remember him well,' murmured the barrister. 'It's well for the poor old chap that he is gone. ') 'Immediately on her father's death she went to reside with Miss Lewis, with whom her father and herself had been on friendly terms, in the capacity of a paid companion. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 204-01 Hollis Avenue, in South Hollis, and find yourself on the steps of South Hollis.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: An Enquiry Concerning the Principles of Taste, and of the Origin of our Ideas of Beauty, etc.. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... [4 Not that she regretted the cost of printing the 250 copies. That was a minor consideration. She concluded: If I ever should shew it to any person it will be to Mr. Langton, from a motive of wishing him to see the alteration I have made in it for the better, since he saw it, and as it is also since Dr. Johnson saw it, and particularly that part he most objected to, my belief that I had obviated that objection, is another apology for my printing it. To this Mrs. Montagu returned a wordy and diffuse reply, commenting that "having for many years past left off all metaphysical studies," she was "not a competent judge of any work on subjects of that nature," yet insisting that she doubted if contemporary readers would like it. It was obvious that Mrs. Montagu refused to be a party to further dissemination of the printed copies. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 135 Second Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Ottendorfer Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Story of Glass, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "When I am not doing some of these things and have the surplus time I am incidentally an interior decorator. Oh, I do not go out papering and painting; oh dear, no! I just tell other people how to spend a fortune furnishing their houses. I advise brocade hangings, Italian marbles and every sort of rare and beautiful thing, and since I do not have these luxuries to pay for I find my vocation a tremendously interesting one." "You have set a worthy example in your own house," observed Mr. Carleton, glancing about with admiration. "Oh, I've done a little--not much. I like the old landscape paper in this library; some of my antique furniture, too, is rather nice. I picked up many of the best pieces in the South. The house itself came to me from my father, and I have altered it very little, as I was anxious to keep its old colonial atmosphere. Hannah and I live here most peacefully with a waitress and inside man to help us. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 665 New Lots Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of New Lots Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Papers And Writings Of Abraham Lincoln, Complete,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... As this nation owes a great debt to Lincoln, so, also, Lincoln's memory owes a great debt to a nation which, as no other nation could have done, has been able to appreciate his full worth. Among the many who have brought about this appreciation, those only whose estimates have been placed in these volumes may be mentioned here. To President Roosevelt, to Mr. Schurz and to Mr. Choate, the editor, for himself, for the publishers, and on behalf of the readers, wishes to offer his sincere acknowledgments. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 1866 Washington Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Tremont Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Tales of Destiny.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "However, know this, my friends, that in my zenana at Jhalnagor there are little girls--three, and more will be welcome should the divine Krishna send them. Three little daughters have I, all born of my wife Lakmibai, the jewel of Jhalnagor. With sons also am I blessed--two brave little boys, of whom I may well be proud. But I love them not more than my daughters, nor would I change any one daughter for a son. This do I say out of the truth of my heart, and in no wise because fortune has been kind to me and mine, and has given us such prosperity that there is a fit dower for each daughter without my treasury knowing the loss. "So when the learned mullah from Stamboul denounced infanticide, I was one with him in sympathy, for my inclination is to cherish with love and care every female child the gods send. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 8202 13th Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Dyker Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Calm Man.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... If a child is not perfect there are emergency measures which can be taken to correct the defect." Sally's mouth went suddenly dry. "Perfect! What do you mean, Jim? Is there something wrong with Tommy?" "I don't think so," her husband said. "His grasp is firm and strong. He has good hearing and his eyesight appears to be all that could be desired. Did you notice how his eyes followed me every moment?" "I wasn't looking at his eyes!" Sally whispered, her voice tight with alarm. "Why are you trying to frighten me, Jim? If Tommy wasn't a normal, healthy baby do you imagine for one instant they would have placed him in my arms?" "That is a very sound observation," Sally's husband said. "Truth is truth, but to alarm you at a time like this would be unnecessarily cruel." "Where does that put you?" "I simply spoke my mind as the child's father. I had to speak as I did because of my natural concern for the health of our child. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 560 New York Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Crown Heights Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Gospel of St. John. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The patrons of what is sometimes called the "partition theory" hold that, though the work as a whole cannot be said to be St. John's, still considerable portions of it are his. About the extent of these portions they differ. Weisse, who, in the year 1838, first gave prominence to this theory, held that the discourses attributed to Christ in the Gospel are studies from the pen of St. John, representing what he considered to be the doctrine of Christ; and that St. John's disciples afterwards set these discourses in their present historical framework, and thus produced the Gospel. Others, however, admit that some portions of the narrative, as well as the discourses, are the work of St. John. 2. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 4355 Katonah Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Woodlawn Heights Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Old Blood,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He slipped his arm around his mother's waist. She took his hand in hers with a fluttering of mothering impulse, as he directed their steps by the side path which led to the garden, while the father, brought up the rear. "You've been successful, Phillie," she said, the thought uppermost in mind coming out first. "It was such an undertaking and we're so pleased." She might have said proud, but that was a vain word. Self-warned about the weakness of parents with only sons, it had been her rule never to spoil Phil with praise. "Yes, I've done pretty well for a----" and he glanced around at his father in the freemasonry of a settled comradeship. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 742 10th Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Columbus Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled McAllister and His Double. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... There was a confusion of shouts, a blue flash, a loud report. The horse sprang into the air and fell, kicking, upon the pavement; the cab crashed upon its side; amid a shower of glass the door parted company with its hinges, and the stranger, placing his heel on McAllister's stomach, leaped quickly into the darkness. A moment later, having recovered a part of his scattered senses, our hero, thrusting himself through the shattered framework of the cab, staggered to his feet. He remembered dimly afterward having expected to create a mild sensation among the spectators by announcing, in response to their polite inquiries as to his safety, that he was "quite uninjured." Instead, however, the glare of a policeman's lantern was turned upon his dishevelled countenance, and a hoarse voice shouted: "Throw up your hands!" Illustration: "Throw up your hands! "] He threw them up. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 202-05 Hillside Avenue, in Hollis, and find yourself on the steps of Hollis Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Danny's Own Story. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Oncet, when I was a kid about six years old, Hank come home from the bar-room. He got to chasing Elmira's cat cause he says it was making faces at him. The cistern door was open, and Hank fell in. Elmira was over to town, and I was scared. She had always told me not to fool around there none when I was a little kid, fur if I fell in there I'd be a corpse quicker'n scatt. So when Hank fell in, and I hearn him splash, being only a little feller, and awful scared because Elmira had always made it so strong, I hadn't no sort of unbelief but what Hank was a corpse already. So I slams the trap door shut over that there cistern without looking in, fur I hearn Hank flopping around down in there. I hadn't never hearn a corpse flop before, and didn't know but what it might be somehow injurious to me, and I wasn't going to take no chances. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 10 Grand Army Plaza, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Brooklyn Central Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 147, July 22, 1914. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I asked Mr. Chumbleton if there were any signs of Cardinal College being affected by the new Moral Uplift, but he seemed unable to fathom the meaning of my query. His standpoint was clearly philistine and, I regret to say, distinctly pagan. He had never heard of the Land Campaign, or of Mr. HEMMERDE, Baron DE FOREST or even Mr. HAROLD BEGBIE. His attitude towards Mr. LLOYD GEORGE was unsympathetic. He deplored the popularity of motor-bicycles, but, with a strange and lamentable perversity, welcomed the advent of the motor-'bus while condemning the introduction of trams. I came away more than ever impressed by the tenacity of feudal traditions, and the need of redoubled efforts on the part of all Radical stalwarts to convert the older universities from hotbeds of expensive obscurantism into free nurseries of humanitarian democracy. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 9 Murray Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of New Amsterdam Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Youngest Girl in the School.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

...' 'What do you know about it, you youngest-but-two?' shouted Peter, wrathfully. Kit peered at him through his spectacles, and went on as impudently as ever. He was never afraid to speak his mind, for none of the others would have dreamed of laying a finger, except in fun, on the one brother who was not strong enough to defend himself; and Kit knew this, as well as he knew his superiority over them in the matter of brains. The only wonder was that the knowledge had not made him a prig. Perhaps it would have been difficult, though, in the hurly-burly of the Berkeley family, for any one to have been a prig. 'As for Wilfred,' he resumed, 'she'll upset all his ambitions before he can turn round. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 877 Southern Boulevard, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Hunt's Point Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Europeans. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... '" The young man had risen from the table, stretching his arms a little; he walked to the window. "That is a description of a charming nature," he said. "Oh, yes, you have a charming nature; I regard that as our capital. If I had not been convinced of that I should never have taken the risk of bringing you to this dreadful country." "This comical country, this delightful country!" exclaimed the young man, and he broke into the most animated laughter. "Is it those women scrambling into the omnibus?" asked his companion. "What do you suppose is the attraction?" "I suppose there is a very good-looking man inside," said the young man. "In each of them? They come along in hundreds, and the men in this country don't seem at all handsome. As for the women--I have never seen so many at once since I left the convent. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 331 East 10th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Tompkins Square Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Poems.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Still I have time beside what I have wasted: Life shall be good to me, work shall be sweet. A New Song about the Sea. From Amberley to Storrington, From Storrington to Amberley, From Amberley to Washington You cannot see or smell the sea. But why the devil should you wish To see the home of silly fish? Since I prefer the earth and air, The fish may wallow in the sea And live the life that they prefer, If they will leave the land to me, So wish for each what he may wish, The earth for me, the sea for fish. THE WINTER SOLDIER September 1914--April 1915 The Winter Soldier. I. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 415 East Houston Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Hamilton Fish Park Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Cock and Anchor. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 790 Bushwick Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of DeKalb Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'In Those Days: The Story of an Old Man.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And a household of three sons was spared when there was, in the same family, a household of four sons. And so forth.-- And as father was speaking--the old man continued--mother contemplated us, as one that escapes from a fire contemplates the saved remnants; and her eyes overflowed with silent tears. Those were the last tears shed over the grave of Dovidl, and for those tears father had no rebuke. We felt that Dovidl was a saint: he had departed this life to save us from the hand of the Catcher. It seemed to me that the soul of Dovidl was flitting about the room, listening to everything, and noticing that we were pleased that he had died; and I felt ashamed. The next day I went to the Heder, somewhat proud of myself. I boasted before my mates that I was a Third. The Fourths envied me; the Fifths envied the Fourths, and all of us envied the Seconds and the only sons. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2049 Asch Loop North, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Baychester Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Pied Piper of Hamelin, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. XIII. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by. --Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop! ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 40 West 20th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Andrew Heiskell Braille and Talking Book Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Bunny Brown and His Sister Sue Keeping Store.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... So now Bunny said: "Oh, all right! We can take turns sending the things out ourselves, Sue." "Yes, and we'll take turns tending store," added Sue. "'Cause I don't want to be doing the buying all the while." "Yes, we'll take turns," agreed Bunny. Soon the children were in the kitchen, keeping store with different things from the pantry that Mary, the cook, gave them to play with. Unopened boxes of cinnamon, cloves and other spices; some cakes of soap in their wrappers just as they had come from the real store, a few nuts, some coffee beans, other beans, dried peas and a bunch of vegetables made up most of the things with which the children played. After they had finished their fun everything could be put back in the pantry. Bunny tore some old newspapers into squares to use in wrapping the "groceries." Mary also gave the children bits of string for tying bundles. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 515 Malcolm X Boulevard, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Two Fishers, and Other Poems. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The little fishes flick their tails, and rise; They fear no English feathers in their flies. And I am back in Yorkshire, growing wise. THE SOLDIERS As the soldiers march along All the air is filled with song. As the soldiers charge with cheers All the air is drenched with tears. And when they take their ease at night The cypress-trees are clothed in white. GREIFSWALD, 1909 I was sick with pain, once, Sick with pain. And an old witch drew to my side And healed me again. She was withered, and wretched, and gray, Deep stabbed with years. And the skin of her face was scarred With hate and tears. She had lived fierce days in that town The sea-winds flog. Hourly the neighbours jibed, Cast stones at a dog. They had slandered her, tricked her; robbed her Of honour and purse. But her wrongs slept deep in her heart For the fiends to nurse. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 7223 Ridge Boulevard, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Bay Ridge Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Centralia Conspiracy.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... At first the subjugation of the forests was a social effort. The lives and future prosperity of the settlers must be made secure from the raids of the Indians and the inclemency of the elements. Manfully did these men labor until their work was done. But this period did not last long, for the tide of emigration was sweeping westward over the sun-baked prairies to the promised land in the golden West. Illustration: Fir and Spruce Trees The wood of the West coast abound with tall fir trees. Practically all high grade spruce comes from this district also. Spruce was a war necessity and the lumber trust profiteered unmercifully on the government. U.S. prisons are full of loggers who struck for the 8 hour day in 1917. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 16 Brighton First Road, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Brighton Beach Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Dick in the Desert.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Then Dick bethought himself of a plan which offered some slight degree of hope, and starting up suddenly, said,-- "I ought to have done it before, an' it ain't too late now." "Done what, Dick dear?" "Gone out in the direction father took, and fired the rifle two or three times. It may be he has lost his bearings, and the report of the gun would be enough to let him know where we are." "But you must not go now that it is dark, my boy. Suppose you should lose your way? Then what would become of Margie and me?" "There's no danger of that, mother. I've been in the woods often enough to be able to take care of myself, surely." "Your father would have said the same thing when he set out; but yet we know some accident must have befallen him. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 425 Avenue of the Americas, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Jefferson Market Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: A Collection of College Words and Customs.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Hist. Coll._, Vol. I. p. 245. But in the succeeding acts ... the Latin syllogism seemed to give the most content.--Harvard Register, 1827-28, p. 305. 2. The close of the session at Oxford, when Masters and Doctors complete their degrees, whence the Act Term, or that term in which the act falls. It is always held with great solemnity. At Cambridge, and in American colleges, it is called Commencement. In this sense Mather uses it. They that were to proceed Bachelors, held their Act publickly in Cambridge.--Mather's Magnalia, B. 4, pp. 127, 128. At some times in the universities of England they have no public acts, but give degrees privately and silently.--_Letter of Increase Mather, in App. to Pres. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 240 Division Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Williamsburgh Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Cruise of the Midge (Vol. I of 2), it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I saw no more of my uncle that night, and when we met next morning at breakfast, I was rejoiced to find the gale had blown itself out. When I sat down, he looked across the table at me, as if expecting me to speak, but as I held my peace, the good old man opened the conference himself. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 127 East 58th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of 58th Street Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Nation in a Nutshell.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Not less certain is it that in their physical type, in their government, in their arts, habits, and daily pursuits, they were separated by a wide gap from the Red Indians whom our ancestors found in possession of the continent. The Indian was roving, and hunted for subsistence. The Mound-Builders were sedentary, and undoubtedly cultivated maize as their chief article of food. Sidenote: Origin of the Mound-Builders. ] But how remote the Mound-Builders were from the era of European settlement, whence they came; how, whither, and when they vanished,--these are questions before which science stands harassed, impotent to answer positively. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 312 Beach 54 Street, in Arverne, and find yourself on the steps of Arverne Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Pictures; The Betrothing: Novels, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Some penetrated into the deepest mysteries of Grecian art, and inspired a new, enthusiastic feeling for the beauties of classical antiquity. Some opened the treasures of many interesting but neglected fields of ancient and modern literature. Others exposed with irresistible subtilty and force of criticism, the spurious rules and blind imitations and hollow pomp of the French drama, so long an object of unsuspecting faith, and directed the public attention to the true classical and romantic models. The language itself, which in the preceding period had lost much of its grace, raciness and vigour, and had become at once weak and unwieldy, was carefully cultivated, and gradually formed into a worthy organ of high conceptions and deep speculations. The next generation grew up under happier auspices. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 9 West 124th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Harlem Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Jerome Cardan: A Biographical Study.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Wherefore I ought, according to every rule, to have been born a monster, and, under the circumstances, it was no marvel that it was found necessary to tear me from the womb in order to bring me into the world. Thus was I born, or rather dragged from my mother's body. I was to all outward seeming dead, with my head covered with black curly hair. I was brought round by being plunged in a bath of heated wine, a remedy which might well have proved hurtful to any other infant. My mother lay three whole days in labour, but at last gave birth to me, a living child. "[12 The sinister influences of the stars soon began to manifest their power. Before Jerome had been many days in the world the woman into whose charge he had been given was seized with the plague and died the same day, whereupon his mother took him home with her. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 976 Castleton Avenue, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of West New Brighton Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Great Steel Strike and its Lessons,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... VI. STORM CLOUDS GATHER 68 Relief demanded--The Amalgamated Association moves--A general movement--The conference committee--Gompers' letter unanswered--The strike vote--Gary defends steel autocracy--President Wilson acts in vain--The strike call. VII. THE STORM BREAKS 96 The Steel Trust Army--Corrupt officialdom--Clairton-- McKeesport--The strike--showing by districts--A treasonable act--Gary gets his answer. VIII. GARYISM RAMPANT 110 The White Terror--Constitutional Rights denied-- Unbreakable solidarity--Father Kazincy--The Cossacks --Scientific barbarity--Prostituted courts--Servants rewarded. IX. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 535 West 179th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Fort Washington Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled What Timmy Did. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He knew well enough that Godfrey Radmore, after that dramatic exit to Australia, had cut himself clean off from all his friends. He was coming back now as that wonderful thing to most people--a millionaire. Was it likely, so the worldly-wise old doctor asked himself, that a man whose whole circumstances had so changed, ever gave a thought to that old boyish love affair with Betty Tosswill?--violent, piteous and painful as the affair had been. But had Betty forgotten? About that the doctor had his doubts, but he kept them strictly to himself. He changed the subject abruptly. "It isn't scarlet fever at the Mortons--only a bit of a red rash. I thought you'd like to know. "It's good of you to have come and told me," she exclaimed. "I confess I did feel anxious, for Timmy was there the whole of the day before yesterday." "Ah! and how's me little friend? ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 1465 York Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Webster Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire — Volume 5, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Before the end of the sixth century, these images, made without hands, (in Greek it is a single word, ) were propagated in the camps and cities of the Eastern empire: they were the objects of worship, and the instruments of miracles; and in the hour of danger or tumult, their venerable presence could revive the hope, rekindle the courage, or repress the fury, of the Roman legions. Of these pictures, the far greater part, the transcripts of a human pencil, could only pretend to a secondary likeness and improper title: but there were some of higher descent, who derived their resemblance from an immediate contact with the original, endowed, for that purpose, with a miraculous and prolific virtue. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 610 East 186th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Belmont Library and Enrico Fermi Cultural Center.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Story of Pocahontas and Captain John Smith. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A feeling of awe crept over them; they thought him a magician, and were afraid to kill him. So at last they marched him off in their midst, through the forest, to consult with the rest of the tribe as to what should be done with him. Illustration] 10. THE DANCE OF VICTORY They carried their prisoner from village to village, while at every moment he looked for death, until at last they came to their great town, Werowacomo, where king Powhatan lived. And here they celebrated their victory by savage pomps and conjurations. They tied the Captain to the ceremonial stake, then, all painted and decorated in their fiercest and most hideous war paint and trappings, they danced their wild dance of triumph. Shouting and jumping, they brandished their war clubs in his face, whirling round and round their captive, like so many demons, each more frightful than the other. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1255 East 233rd Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Edenwald Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Selections from American poetry, with special reference to Poe, Longfellow, Lowell and Whittier. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In Henry Wadsworth Longfellow American poetry reached high-water mark. Lafcadio Hearn in his "Interpretations of Literature" says: "Really I believe that it is a very good test of any Englishman's ability to feel poetry, simply to ask him, 'Did you like Longfellow when you were a boy?' If he eats 'No,' then it is no use to talk to him on the subject of poetry at all, however much he might be able to tell you about quantities and metres." No American has in equal degree won the name of "household poet." If this term is correctly understood, it sums up his merits more succinctly than can any other title. Longfellow dealt largely with men and women and the emotions common to us all. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 360 Irving Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Washington Irving Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Connor Magan's Luck and Other Stories. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... This would not apply to Twinrip's relics. The poor shabby furniture looked more than ever dilapidated in the open daylight. The social air of a home that was lived in, pervaded this temporary baggage-room between the tracks. One child was asleep in a cradle, others were eating their coarse food off a board. When a sprinkling of rain fell, an old grandmother under an umbrella fastened to a bed-post went on knitting, serenely. Youngsters who needed rubbers and waterproofs about as much as did Newfoundland dogs, enjoyed the fun. One four-year old, sitting on a tub turned upside down, was waving a small flag, a relic of the Fourth of July--and looking as happy and independent as a king. It took all his wife's hopeful eloquence to comfort Tim. There was no water in Tim's cellar, because he had no cellar. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 203 West 115th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of 115th Street Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Two Gallant Sons of Devon: A Tale of the Days of Queen Bess. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A few minutes later they were aboard the lugger, busily engaged in loosing and setting the sails; and presently they were under way, having slipped their moorings and transferred them to the skiff, which they left behind to serve as a buoy to guide them to the moorings upon their return. The lugger was a beautiful boat, according to the idea of beauty that then prevailed, having been constructed by Mr George Heard--familiarly known as Gramfer Heard--shipbuilder of Devonport, and Dick Chichester's master, as a kind of yacht, for his own especial use and enjoyment. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 85-12 Main Street, in Briarwood, and find yourself on the steps of Briarwood Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Bread Line: A Story of a Paper,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... They were thinking, however. "It's a field," observed Perner, at last. "_Barri_field," said Van Dorn, who sometimes made puns. Barrifield became excited. He did this now and then. "Field! It's the field," he declared fiercely--"the only field! Everything else is full. There's a ten-cent monthly in every block in New York! And"--whispering hoarsely--"even then they're getting rich! Rich! But there's only one high-class family weekly at less than four dollars in the country, and that's a juvenile! What I propose"--he was talking fast enough now--"is to establish a high-class family weekly--for the whole family--at one dollar a year!" He paused again. His words had not been without effect this time. The three listeners knew thoroughly the field of periodicals, and that no such paper as he proposed existed. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 72-31 Metropolitan Avenue, in Middle Village, and find yourself on the steps of Middle Village Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Reminiscences: The Story of an Emigrant, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Minneapolis, Minn., October, 1891. CHAPTER I. Ancestry and country home in Sweden--Home influences--My first school years--Christmas--Military life--Departure for America. My childhood passed so quietly and smoothly that it would be superfluous to mention it at all, except for the fact that such omission would leave a gap in these reminiscences. For this reason, and, also, in order that the American reader may get some idea of a good country home in Sweden, I shall relate very briefly some incidents from that time. My parents belonged to one of those old families of proprietary farmers, whose spirit of independence and never failing love of liberty, have, from time immemorial, placed Sweden, as a land of constitutional liberty, in the front rank among all the countries of the Old World. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 92-25 Rockaway Beach Boulevard, in Rockaway Beach, and find yourself on the steps of Peninsula Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, 1920-11-03. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Yes; what is it?" "I have called, Madam, to ask if you are satisfied with your laundry." "Far from it," I said. "It is kind of you to ask, but why?" "Because I wish to solicit your custom for the laundry I represent." "What faults do you specialise in?" I inquired. "I beg your pardon, Madam?" "Will you send home my husband's collars with an edge like a dissipated saw?" The young woman's face brightened with comprehension. "Oh, no, Madam," she replied. "We exercise the greatest care with gentlemen's stand-up collars." "Will you shrink my combinations to the size of a doll's?" An expression of horror invaded her countenance. "The utmost precaution," she asserted, "is taken to prevent the shrinkage of woollens." "Is it your custom to send back towels reduced to two hems connected by a few stray rags in the middle?" The young woman was aghast. "All towels are handled as gently as possible to avoid tearing," she replied. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 2900 Broadway, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Morningside Heights Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Life History and Ecology of the Five-Lined Skink, Eumeces fasciatus,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Even with such precaution, precise measurements could not be obtained and the readings often varied a millimeter or more for the same skink measured two or more times on the same day. Tail length was similarly recorded with separate readings for the original and regenerated portions. Also recorded were sex (when discernible), color and pattern, breeding data, injuries, general condition, and sometimes temperature. Many of the skinks were brought to the laboratory, and were weighed to the nearest tenth of a gram. Occasional trips were made to localities away from the Reservation to collect skinks. Some of those obtained were kept under observation in terraria where their behavior was studied. Most were preserved and were used for data on habitat preferences, seasonal changes in the gonads, size group, stomach contents, and various other items of information. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 75 Bennett Street, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Port Richmond Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled On the Reception of the 'Origin of Species'. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Nor does the reviewer fail to flavour this outpouring of preposterous incapacity with a little stimulation of the odium theologicum. Some inkling of the history of the conflicts between Astronomy, Geology, and Theology, leads him to keep a retreat open by the proviso that he cannot "consent to test the truth of Natural Science by the word of Revelation;" but, for all that, he devotes pages to the exposition of his conviction that Mr. Darwin's theory "contradicts the revealed relation of the creation to its Creator," and is "inconsistent with the fulness of his glory." If I confine my retrospect of the reception of the 'Origin of Species' to a twelvemonth, or thereabouts, from the time of its publication, I do not recollect anything quite so foolish and unmannerly as the 'Quarterly Review' article, unless, perhaps, the address of a Reverend Professor to the Dublin Geological Society might enter into competition with it. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 40 Lincoln Center Plaza, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Library for the Performing Arts.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Man in Court.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... C'est pour rire." Who are these women who are brought in a crowd together? One of them older than the rest is a foreigner plainly dressed in black silk with a gold chain. She does not seem particularly evil, but rather respectable. The others are in long cloaks or waterproofs hastily donned and through which are glimpses of pink stockings. They have hair of that disagreeable butter color which speaks of peroxide. There has been a raid on a west-side street of a house of ill repute. Some testimony is given and the older woman, the "Madam" is held in bail for the action of the Grand Jury while the rest are held for further evidence. The judge tells us there will probably not be enough testimony and they will be released in the morning. But unless bail is found they will spend the night in cells. A nervous, excited woman comes in--two policemen are with her. She has been arrested for disorderly conduct on Sixth Avenue near Thirty-first Street. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 321 East 140th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Mott Haven Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Indulgence of Negu Mah. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Negu Mah rose. "My friend," he said, "if you will come with me, I will show you what I mean." Sliss grasped the edge of his tub with webbed hands and swung his webbed, yellow-skinned feet free from the water which kept the sensitive membranes from drying, and at the same time supplied his body tissues with liquid. Falling upon all fours, like a great, misshapen pet, he waddled awkwardly after his host. Negu Mah led him to an elevator within the house. This took them to a higher floor, and there they followed a corridor to the rear of the building. Here Negu Mah, without showing a light, opened a door, and in silence they moved out upon a small balcony overlooking the rear gardens, which were shrouded in darkness because rising Jupiter was on the opposite side of the building. They had stood there only a moment when below them a door opened, and a small figure slipped through. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 85-41 Forest Parkway, in Woodhaven, and find yourself on the steps of Woodhaven Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Prince and the Pauper, Part 5..

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... As soon as he could recover his wits he cried out-- "Have thy wish, poor soul! an' thou had poisoned a hundred men thou shouldst not suffer so miserable a death." The prisoner bowed his face to the ground and burst into passionate expressions of gratitude--ending with-- "If ever thou shouldst know misfortune--which God forefend!--may thy goodness to me this day be remembered and requited!" Tom turned to the Earl of Hertford, and said-- "My lord, is it believable that there was warrant for this man's ferocious doom?" "It is the law, your Grace--for poisoners. In Germany coiners be boiled to death in OIL--not cast in of a sudden, but by a rope let down into the oil by degrees, and slowly; first the feet, then the legs, then--" "O prithee no more, my lord, I cannot bear it!" cried Tom, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the picture. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 29-42 Union Street, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Mitchell-Linden Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled 'Round the yule-log: Christmas in Norway. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I had also to tell them the story of the brownie at Hesselberg, who teased the house-dog till the farmer came out and threw him over the barn bridge. The children clapped their hands in great joy and laughed heartily. Illustration: Picture of two brownies fighting] "It served him right, the naughty brownie!" they shouted, and asked for another story. "Well," said I, "I will tell you the story of Peter Gynt and the trolls. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 224 East 125th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of 125th Street Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Double Spy.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... If our enemies who object so strongly to Your Excellency's statements could be here for only one hour they would become your devoted supporters. American women are the proof that your theories are correct. Your famous attempt to explain some of the incongruous and apparently ridiculous passages in our ancient manuscripts by assuming the existence of a now-vanished female principle is irrefutably demonstrated by these women, Your Excellency. Here, the female principle exists, and as you predicted, most of the women are therefore entirely different from ours. The term used in this language is "femininity." It is a devastatingly attractive thing--but almost impossible to explain. I will make an attempt. Senseless, reasonless, even foolish motions of the body and the hands, the expressions of the eyes and the mouth, the way the head is moved and tilted are a part of it. So are unusual tones of the voice and special ways in which things are said. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 256-04 Union Turnpike, in Glen Oaks, and find yourself on the steps of Glen Oaks Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars; or, The Rivals of Riverside.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Are we going to wallop 'em?" asked Fred. "Sure thing," assented Sam. "It's going to be a hot game all right," was Percy's opinion. "All the better," commented Darrell. "Say the people are turning out in great shape, though. I'm glad to see it. We need a little money in our treasury." They turned in at the players' gate. The Resolute team had preceded them, and already several of the members of that nine were in their uniforms and out on the diamond. They were lads of the same age as their rivals, and had about the same sort of an organization--strictly amateur, but with desires to do as nearly as possible as the college and professional teams did. But there was a great difference, of course, and mainly in the rather free-and-easy manner in which the rules were interpreted. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 3025 Cross Bronx Expressway Extension, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Throg's Neck Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: The Lives of the Twelve Caesars, Complete.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... V. Having been elected military tribune, the first honour he received from the suffrages of the people after his return to Rome, he zealously assisted those who took measures for restoring the tribunitian authority, which had been greatly diminished during the usurpation of Sylla. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 128-16 Rockaway Boulevard, in South Ozone Park, and find yourself on the steps of South Ozone Park Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Man-Size.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Morse caught the gleam of a knife thrust as he plunged. It was too late to check his dive. A flame of fire scorched through his forearm. The two went down together, rolling over and over as they struggled. Startled, Morse loosened his grip. He had discovered by the feel of the flesh he was handling so roughly that it was a woman with whom he was fighting. She took advantage of his hesitation to shake free and roll away. They faced each other on their feet. The man was amazed at the young Amazon's fury. Her eyes were like live coals, flashing at him hatred and defiance. Beneath the skin smock she wore, her breath came raggedly and deeply. Neither of them spoke, but her gaze did not yield a thousandth part of an inch to his. The girl darted for the knife she had dropped. Morse was upon her instantly. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 455 Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Mid-Manhattan Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean That Affair at Elizabeth.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... I had only to close my eyes to picture the scene--the dim, flower-decked interior; the handsomely-gowned, sympathetically-expectant audience; the bride, supremely beautiful in her veil and orange blossoms, her eyes downcast, the warm colour coming and going in her cheeks.... "Telegram, sir," said a voice, and I swung around to find the office-boy at my elbow. "For you, sir," he added. I took the yellow envelope and tore it open absently, my mind still on the vision my fancy had conjured up. Then, as my eyes caught the words of the message, I sat bolt upright with a start. It read: "Come to Elizabeth by first train. Don't fail us." "ROYCE. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 975 East 16th Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Midwood Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Punchinello, Volume 1, No. 16, July 16, 1870. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... * * * * * THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD. AN ADAPTATION. BY ORPHEUS C. KERR. CHAPTER X.--(Continued. ) The Pond at Bumsteadville is sufficiently near the turnpike to be readily reached from the latter, and, if mentioned in the advertisement of a summer boarding-house, would be called Lake Duckingham, on account of the fashionable ducks resorting thither for bathing and flirtation in the season. When July's sun turns its tranquil mirror to hues of amber and gold, the slender mosquito sings Hum, sweet Hum, along its margin; and when Autumn hangs his livery of motley on the trees, the glassy surface breathes out a mist wherefrom arises a spectre, with one hand of ice and the other of flame, to scatter Chills and Fever. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 2650 Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Macomb's Bridge Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Unknown to History: A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... We had no milk on board, and could only give it bits of soft bread soaked in beer, and I misdoubt me whether it did not all run out at the corners of its mouth." This was interspersed with little Humfrey's eager outcries that little sister was come again, and Mrs. Talbot, the tears running down her cheeks, hastened to summon her one woman-servant, Colet, to bring the porringer of milk. Captain Talbot had only hurried ashore to bring the infant, and show himself to his wife. He was forced instantly to return to the wharf, but he promised to come back as soon as he should have taken order for his men, and for the Mastiff, which had suffered considerably in the storm, and would need to be refitted. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 78 West 168th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of High Bridge Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled The Martian Cabal. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Sime laughed shortly. He began to suspect that this amazing girl was demented. He thought of the powerfully entrenched rulers of this theoretically republican government. For more than two hundred years, if he remembered rightly, the Martians had been ruled by a small group of rich politicians. "You propose a revolution?" he asked curiously. "I propose the return of Princess Sira to the throne!" she declared vehemently. "But enough! Are you going to betray me--I, who have risked much to warn you? Or are you going to let me go?" * * * * * Sime looked into her warm, earnest little face. Her lips were parted softly, showing perfect little teeth, and she was breathing quickly, anxiously. Sime was woman hungry, as men of the service often are on the long, lonely trail. He seized her quickly, pressed her little figure to him and kissed her. For a thrilling instant it seemed that she relaxed. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 1580 Rockaway Parkway, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Canarsie Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Punchinello, Volume 1, No. 22, August 27, 1870. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... | | | | The following reward has also been offered by the New York | | Stock Exchange: | | | | $10,000--The New York Stock Exchange offers a reward of Ten | | Thousand Dollars for the arrest and conviction of the | | murderer or murderers of Benjamin Nathan, late a member of | | said Exchange, who was killed on the night of July 28, 1870, | | at his house in Twenty-third street, New York City. | | | | J.L. BROWNELL, Vice-Chairman, Gov. Com. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 2636 East 14th Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Sheepshead Bay Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Langford of the Three Bars. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... No puff of cloudy smoke leaped from a rifle barrel. If, as he more than half suspected, the island was a rendezvous for cattle thieves, a place surely admirably fitted by nature for such unlawful operations, the rustlers were either overconfident of the inaccessibility of their retreat and kept no lookout, or they were insolently indifferent to exposure. The former premise was the more likely. A light breeze, born of the afterglow, came scurrying down the river bed. Here and there, where the sand was finest and driest, it rose in little whirlwinds. No sound broke the stillness of the summer evening. What was that? Coyotes barking over yonder across the river? That alien sound! A man's laugh, a curse, a heart-breaking bellow of pain. Williston parted ever so slightly the thick foliage of underbrush that separated him from the all too familiar sounds and peered within. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 43-06 Greenpoint Avenue, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Sunnyside Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Law and Laughter.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A circuit story is told of him in which a convicted felon named Hog appealed for remission of his sentence on the ground that he was related to his lordship. "Nay, my friend," replied the judge, "you and I cannot be kindred except you be hanged, for hog is not bacon until it be well hung." This retort was not quite so coarse as that attributed to the Scottish judge, Lord Kames, two centuries later, who on sentencing to death a man with whom he had often played chess and very frequently been beaten, added after the solemn words of doom, "And noo, Matthew, ye'll admit that's checkmate for you." To Lord Chancellor Hatton, also an Elizabethan judge who aimed at sprightliness on the Bench, a clever mot is attributed. The case before him was one concerning the limits of certain land. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 135 East 46th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Grand Central Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Confutatio Pontificia. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He saw that Abraham would "command his Children and his household after him to keep the way of the Lord, and to do justice and judgment," Gen. 18:19. And: "By myself have I sworn, saith the Lord, for because thou hast done this thing I will bless thee and multiply thy seed." Gen 22:16. Thus he regarded the fast of the Ninevites, Jonah 3, and the lamentations and tears of King Hezekiah, 4:2; 2 Kings 20. For this cause all the faithful should follow the advice of St. Paul: "As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith," Gal. 6:10. For Christ says: "The night cometh when no man can work." John 9:4. But in the same article their ascription of justification to faith alone is diametrically opposite the truth of the Gospel by which works are not excluded; "because glory, honor and peace to every man that worketh good," Rom. 2:10. Why? because David, Ps. 62:12; Christ, Matt. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 104 West 136th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Countee Cullen Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Shagganappi, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And now good-bye, Shagganappi, and remember that you are the real Canadian." Another handclasp and Lord Mortimer was walking away with the principal at his side, who was saying, "Your Excellency, you have greatly encouraged that boy; I think he always felt terribly that he was a half-bree--half-blood. He would have loved to claim either all Cree or all French ancestry." "He is a fine lad and I like him," returned Lord Mortimer, rather shortly, for he felt a little impatient with the principal, who could so easily have lightened the boy's heart from the very first year he had entered the school, by fostering within him pride of the two great races that blended within his veins into that one mighty nation called Canadian. But that day proved the beginning of a new life for Fire-Flint; Lord Mortimer had called him Shagganappi in a half playful way, had said the name meant good and great things. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 108-41 Guy R Brewer Boulevard, in Jamaica, and find yourself on the steps of South Jamaica Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'In a Belgian Garden, and Other Poems.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Ah, Jean will never hear it more! I could not seize or hold him back, For while the light burned pale and blue, A heavy hand from out the black Held me beside my own canoe, And ere I stirred, the other barque Had silent sped into the dark. Adown the river's drifting tide To where the wild, mad rapids run, Past pine-trees towering on each side His frail canoe had drifted on; He did not look to left or right But gazed upon that hell-born light. And ever swifter with the flow He drifted where the rapids play, His eyes still on that awful glow; Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away! I saw a gleam far up the sky And heard the echo of a cry. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 310 East Kingsbridge Road, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Bronx Library Center.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Nooks and Corners of Cornwall.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... 47-64 CHAPTER IV NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM THE VALE OF LANHERNE TO HAYLE TOWANS Hurling and St. Columb Major: Colan: The Gratitude of the Stuarts: Trevalgue: A Good Centre for Crantock, St. Cubert, and Trerice: St. Agnes and the Giant: Portreath: the Bassets: Godrevy: Gwithian: The Pilchards Pp. 67-80 CHAPTER V NOOKS AND CORNERS FROM LELANT TO PENZANCE Gold in Cornwall: Knill's Monument: The Antiquities of the Extreme West: Cliff Castles: Fogous: Menhirs: Dolmens: Oratories: Superstitions: St. Ives: Wesley: Irving: A Ripe Old Age: The Mines: Sancreed and St. Buryan: Lighthouses: Whitesand Bay: The Land's End: Mousehole and Dolly Pentreath: Newlyn: Penzance Pp. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 496 Franklin Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Bedford Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Psychology and Social Sanity. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The psychologist, I am convinced, must here stand on the unpopular side. To be sure, he is not unaccustomed to such an unfortunate position in the camp of the disfavoured minority. Whenever a great movement sweeps through the civilized world, it generally starts from the recognition of a great social wrong and from the enthusiasm for a thorough change. But these wrongs, whether they have political or social, economic or moral character, are always the products of both physical and psychical causes. The public thinks first of all of the physical ones. There are railroad accidents: therefore improve the physical technique of the signal system; there is drunkenness: therefore remove the whiskey bottle. The psychical element is by no means ignored. Yet it is treated as if mere insight into the cause, mere good will and understanding, are sufficient to take care of the mental factors involved. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 5108 4th Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Sunset Park Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Lucy Maud Montgomery Short Stories, 1907 to 1908. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "Don't talk like that, Jack," I said hurriedly. "It is all nonsense. I think a great deal of you as a friend and--and--all that, you know. But I can never marry you." "Are you sure, Kitty?" said Jack earnestly. "Don't you care for me at all?" It was horrid of Jack to ask that question! "No," I said miserably, "not--not in that way, Jack. Oh, don't ever say anything like this to me again." He let go of my hands then, white to the lips. "Oh, don't look like that, Jack," I entreated. "I can't help it," he said in a low voice. "But I won't bother you again, dear. It was foolish of me to expect--to hope for anything of the sort. You are a thousand times too good for me, I know." "Oh, indeed I'm not, Jack," I protested. "If you knew how horrid I am, really, you'd be glad and thankful for your escape. Oh, Jack, I wish people never grew up." Jack smiled sadly. "Don't feel badly over this, Kitty. It isn't your fault. Good night, dear. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 1743 86th Street, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of New Utrecht Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean A Philosophical Dictionary, Volume 09.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He has purchased their lands and assumed their titles; the old noblesse have been degraded, and the new have been only envied and despised. Everything has been thrown into confusion. Those nations which have permitted such usurpations, have been the sport and scorn of such as have secured themselves against an evil so baneful. The errors of one government may become a lesson for others. They profit by its wise and salutary institutions; they may avoid the evil it has incurred through those of an opposite tendency. It is so easy to oppose the restrictions of law to the cupidity and arrogance of upstart proprietors, to fix the extent of lands which wealthy plebeians may be allowed to purchase, to prevent their acquisition of large seigniorial property and privileges, that a firm and wise government can never have cause to repent of having enfranchised servitude and enriched indigence. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 150 West 100th Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Bloomingdale Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Clare Avery: A Story of the Spanish Armada. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The needlework said plainly that there must be a woman in the dreary house, and the doll, staring at the ceiling with black expressionless eyes, spoke as distinctly for the existence of a child. Suddenly the door of this room opened with a plaintive creak, and a little woman, on the elderly side of middle life, put in her head. A bright, energetic, active little woman she seemed,--not the sort of person who might be expected to put up meekly with dim windows and dusty floors. "Marry La'kin!" a corruption of "Mary, little Lady! "] she said aloud. "Of a truth, what a charge be these childre! ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 228 East 23rd Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Epiphany Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'The Saracen: The Holy War.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But his arm could not move. It was as if a powerful hand held it, and he seemed to hear a voice booming in his head, You dare to murder a priest? In his dread he hesitated, but if he did not escape Sophia would die. The moment of paralysis passed, and instead of killing Friar Mathieu, he thrust him aside, to fall from the banisterless stairs. As he lies in bed the following morning in Ugolini's mansion, Daoud forces himself to think. He has extended himself to the limit of his powers and failed, but he must try again. He has to find a new plan, lest his faith and his people, his whole world, meet annihilation. In a room near Daoud's, Sophia Karaiannides kneels before an icon of Saint Simon Stylites that she herself painted. She is thankful that Daoud escaped alive from the Monaldeschi palace. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 4020 Broadway, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Broadway Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: The Acts Of The General Assemblies of the Church of Scotland. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... A Letter from some Ministers of England. Answer to the Ministers Letter. Act for the Lord Maitlands presenting the Assemblies Supplication to His Majestie, and for going to the Commissioners at London, with the Answer to the Parliament of Englands Declaration. Sess. 11. August 5. post meridiem. Commission for publike affairs of this Kirk, and for prosecuting the desires of this Assembly to His Majestie, and the Parliament of England. Sess. 13. Aug. 6. 1642. A Petition from some distressed Professors in Ireland. Commission to some Ministers to go to Ireland. Sess. 13. August 6. 1642. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 285 East 205th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Mosholu Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Crisis of the Naval War,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Compare those varied tasks with the comparatively modest duties which in pre-war days were generally assigned to the Navy, and it will be seen how much there may be to learn of the lessons of experience, and how sparing we should be of criticism. Wisdom distilled from events which were unforeseeable should find expression not in criticisms of those who did their duty to the best of their ability, but in the taking of wise precautions for the future. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 1000 Utica Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Rugby Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Greek and Roman Ghost Stories.'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... They were, in fact, evil spirits which had to be propitiated and honoured in special rites. Their appearances among the living were not regulated by religion. They wandered at will over the earth, belonging neither to this world nor to the next, restless and malignant, unable to escape from the trammels of mortal life, in the joys of which they had no part. Thus, in the Phaedo[15] we read of souls "prowling about tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which have not departed pure ... These must be the souls, not of the good, but of the evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of their former evil way of life." Apuleius[16] classifies the spirits of the departed for us. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 2035 Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Clarendon Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Lords of the Housetops: Thirteen Cat Tales.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The volume was translated into English by J. Thompson and published in London in 1877, but for obvious reasons The Afflictions of an English Cat was not included in the translation, although Balzac's name would have added lustre to the collection. But in the Victorian age such a rough satire would scarcely have been tolerated. Even in French the story is not easily accessible. Aside from its original setting I have found it in but one edition of Balzac, the OEuvres Completes issued in de luxe form by Calmann-Levy in 1879, where it is buried in the twenty-first volume, OEuvres Diverses. Therefore I make no excuse for translating and offering it to my readers, for although perhaps it was not intended for a picture of cat life, the observation on the whole is true enough, and the story itself is too delicious to pass by. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 20-12 Madison Street, in Ridgewood, and find yourself on the steps of Ridgewood Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Vicomte De Bragelonne, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Instead of dueling, the four are attacked by five of the Cardinal's guards, and the courage of the youth is made apparent during the battle. The four become fast friends, and, when asked by D'Artagnan's landlord to find his missing wife, embark upon an adventure that takes them across both France and England in order to thwart the plans of the Cardinal Richelieu. Along the way, they encounter a beautiful young spy, named simply Milady, who will stop at nothing to disgrace Queen Anne of Austria before her husband, Louis XIII, and take her revenge upon the four friends. Twenty Years After (serialized January--August, 1845): The year is now 1648, twenty years since the close of the last story. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 25 55 Francis Lewis Boulevard, in Flushing, and find yourself on the steps of Auburndale Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Philippine Folklore Stories,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... So Quicoy went home and kept very quiet all day. His mother was sorry she had frightened him the night before, and was going to tell him not to be afraid; but when she thought of the lubi lana spilled on the ground, she resolved to punish him more by saying nothing to him. Just at dark, when no one was looking, Quicoy took his father's bolo and quietly slipped away to the grove down by the river. He was not afraid of ladrones, but he needed the bolo because it is not easy to open a cocoanut, and it takes some time, even with a bolo, to get the husk chopped from the fruit. Quicoy felt a little frightened when he saw all the big trees around him. The wind made strange noises in the branches high above him, and all the trees seemed to be leaning over and trying to speak to him. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 650 West 235th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Spuyten Duyvil Library.

You approach a librarian at the reference desk. 'Can I help you?' she asks.

'I hope,' you reply. 'I'm looking for a book, but can't remember the title. I think it had a red cover...'

She waits for more information, and when you offer none, she makes a small sound in her throat.

'Well, this one is a classic, and several other patrons have sought it out recently,' she says politely, leading you to a shelf with a familiar-looking red book on it. 'Lovely title, isn't it?' she adds. 'Dorothy's Double. Volume 2 (of 3).'

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He has worked most nobly for us, Singleton, as I told you last night, and ought certainly to be told of this new development. It will make us an odd number, for my cousin, Mary Daintree, has--I was going to remark I am glad to say, but I suppose I oughtn't--not yet recovered from the shock given her by Dorothy breaking off her engagement, and is keeping to her bed. However, it does not matter about there being an odd number.' 'Of course you can ask Captain Hampton if you like, father,' Dorothy said, coldly, 'but at any rate for my part I would rather that he did not meddle any more in my affairs.' 'Hulloa! hulloa!' Mr. Singleton exclaimed, 'what is in the wind now, Dorothy? I thought you and Ned Hampton were sworn friends, and next to yourself, Ned has always stood very high in my regard. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 91-41 63 Drive, in Rego Park, and find yourself on the steps of Rego Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... The Adventures of Odysseus and The Tales of Troy, it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

...' When he had told him all this Telemachus raised his head and looked at the stranger: 'O my guest,' he said, 'wisdom and power shine out of your eyes. Speak now to me and tell me what I should do to save the house of Odysseus from ruin. And tell me too if you think it possible that my father should still be in life.' The stranger looked at him with his grey, clear, wonderfully-shining eyes. 'Art thou verily the son of Odysseus?' said he. 'Verily, I am the son of Odysseus,' said Telemachus. 'As I look at you,' said the stranger, 'I mark your head and eyes, and I know they are such a head and such eyes as Odysseus had. Well, being the son of such a man, and of such a woman as the lady Penelope, your spirit surely shall find a way of destroying those wooers who would destroy your house. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 116-15 Rockaway Beach Boulevard, in Rockaway Park, and find yourself on the steps of Seaside Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Bubbles of the Foam. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... and what is more like the delusion of love than a bubble of the foam, so beautiful in its play of colour, while it endures: so evanescent, so hollow, leaving behind it when it bursts and disappears nothing but a memory, and a bitter taste of brine? And as love is but a bubble, so are all its victims merely bubbles of a bubble: for this also is mirage. Footnote 3: I was sorely tempted to give it the title of Mere Foam: which, if the reader would kindly understand mere in its German, its Russian, its Latin, and its ordinary English sense, would be an exact translation. But it has an unfortunate suggestion (meerschaum) which made it impossible. Mirage! mirage! That is the keynote of the old melancholy Indian music; the bass, whose undertone accompanies, with a kind of monotonous solemnity, all the treble variations in the minor key. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 1901 Mermaid Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Coney Island Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Frankenstein; Or, The Modern Prometheus. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Night waned upon this talk, and even the witching hour had gone by, before we retired to rest. When I placed my head on my pillow, I did not sleep, nor could I be said to think. My imagination, unbidden, possessed and guided me, gifting the successive images that arose in my mind with a vividness far beyond the usual bounds of reverie. I saw--with shut eyes, but acute mental vision,--I saw the pale student of unhallowed arts kneeling beside the thing he had put together. I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out, and then, on the working of some powerful engine, show signs of life, and stir with an uneasy, half vital motion. Frightful must it be; for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavour to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world. His success would terrify the artist; he would rush away from his odious handywork, horror-stricken. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 218-13 Linden Boulevard, in Cambria Heights, and find yourself on the steps of Cambria Heights Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Young Barbarians.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Most of us regarded McGuffie senior as a model of all the virtues that were worthy of a boy's imitation, and his son with undisguised envy, because he had a father of such undeniable notoriety, because he had the run of the stables, because he was on terms of easy familiarity with his father's grooms, and because he was encouraged to do those things which we were not allowed to do, and never exhorted to do those things which he hated to do. All the good advice we ever got, and all the examples of those two excellent young gentlemen, the sons of the Rev. Dr. Dowbiggin, were blown to the winds when we saw Speug pass, sitting in the high dogcart beside his father, while that talented man was showing off to Muirtown a newly broken horse. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 21-25 Robin Road, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of South Beach Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 104, March 25, 1893.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... "SAMMY" (added Mr. WITLER, puffing and perspiring freely), "help me in, and fill me a stiff glass o' Speshal Scotch; for I'm out of breath, my boy!" * * * * * Illustration: RATHER SUSPICIOUS. Mistress (to Housekeeper, after "the Young Person" has left the room). "REALLY, WILKINS, I COULD NOT ENGAGE THAT YOUNG PERSON. SHE IS TOO UGLY BY FAR!" Housekeeper. "VERY SORRY, MUM. BUT YOU SAID SO PARTICULARLY THAT I WAS TO LOOK OUT FOR A GOOD PLAIN COOK,--'QUITE A PLAIN COOK,' YOU SAID, MUM,--THAT I THOUGHT YOU HAD SOME PARTICULAR REASON----" * * * * * VERY NATURAL.--Mrs. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 947 Castle Hill Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Castle Hill Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: Memoirs of Napoleon Bonaparte — Complete.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Bourrienne had been appointed in 1792 as secretary of the Legation at Stuttgart, and had, probably wisely, disobeyed the orders given him to return, thus escaping the dangers of the Revolution. He only came back to Paris in 1795, having thus become an emigre. He joined Napoleon in 1797, after the Austrians had been beaten out of Italy, and at once assumed the office of secretary which he held for so long. He had sufficient tact to forbear treating the haughty young General with any assumption of familiarity in public, and he was indefatigable enough to please even the never-resting Napoleon. ...

No, this can't be it. You shelve the book and leave quickly. It's getting dark outside, and there isn't much time left. You board a bus headed toward another nearby library branch.


You arrive at 985 Morris Park Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Morris Park Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Masters of the Wheat-Lands. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The faces of the women were a trifle sallow and had lost their freshness in the dry heat of the stove. Their hands were hard and reddened, and in figure most of them were thin and spare. One could have fancied that in a land where everybody toiled strenuously their burden was heavier than the men's. One or two of the women clearly had been accustomed to a smoother life, but there was nothing to suggest that they looked back to it with regret. As a matter of fact, they looked forward, working for the future, and there was patient courage in their smiling eyes. Creighton's Sally, who was then tripping through the measure on Hawtrey's arm, was native born. She was young and straight--straighter in outline than the women of the cities--with a suppleness which was less suggestive of the willow than a rather highly-tempered spring. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 18-36 Bell Boulevard, in Bayside, and find yourself on the steps of Bay Terrace.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 159, 1920-07-28,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... busisisness men us e the device a gre t deal wen writing to their membersof PARLIAment, in order to emphasasise the pointin wich theLr inLustice is worSe than anyone elses inLustice . wen they come to WE ARE RUINED they burst out into red and wen they come to WE w WOULD remIND YOU tHAT ATtHE LAST ELECTION yoU UNDERTOOk they burst into GReeN. thei r typists must enjoy doing those letters. with this arrang ment of corse one coul d do allkinds of capital wallpapers. for |nstance wat about a scheme of red L's and black %'s and gReen &'s? this sort of thing L % L % L % L % L % & L & L & L & L & L L % L % L % L % L % & L & L & L & L & L Manya poor man would be glad to Lave that in his parLour ratherthan wat he has got now. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 1305 Cortelyou Road, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Cortelyou Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled History of Woman Suffrage, Volume III. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... PAGE CHAPTER XXVII. THE CENTENNIAL YEAR--1876. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 5540 Mosholu Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Riverdale Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Love's Meinie: Three Lectures on Greek and English Birds. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The only piece of natural history worth the name in the English language, that I know of, is in the few lines of Milton on the Creation. The only example of a proper manner of contribution to natural history is in White's Letters from Selborne. You know I have always spoken of Bewick as pre-eminently a vulgar or boorish person, though of splendid honor and genius; his vulgarity shows in nothing so much as in the poverty of the details he has collected, with the best intentions, and the shrewdest sense, for English ornithology. His imagination is not cultivated enough to enable him to choose, or arrange. 5] Sir Arthur Helps. "Animals and their Masters," p. 67. 6] Ariadne Florentina, vi. 45. 4. Nor can much more be said for the observations of modern science. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 100-01 Northern Boulevard, in Corona, and find yourself on the steps of Langston Hughes Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'The Modern American Pistol and Revolver,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The world moves, mechanical skill improves, artistic knowledge of form and symmetry is each year combined with mechanical ingenuity, and at the present time the American pistol and revolver has reached a degree of perfection previously unknown; and it is our purpose to describe in this volume the modern pistol and revolver of American make, those manufactured in quantity known in trade, and procurable by any one desiring to secure a safe and reliable weapon. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 121-23 14 Avenue, in College Point, and find yourself on the steps of Poppenhusen Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled Through the Fray: A Tale of the Luddite Riots. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Only once a week, on the Saturday half holiday, were the boys allowed outside the bounds of the wall round the playground, and although on Wednesday an old woman was allowed to come into those precincts to sell fruit, cakes, and sweets, many articles were wanted in the course of the week, and the boys took it much amiss for a time that Ned refused to act as their messenger; but he was firm in his refusals. His father had told him not to do so, and his father's word was law to him; but when the boys saw that in all other respects he was a thoroughly good fellow, they soon forgave him what they considered his undue punctiliousness, and he became a prime favorite in the school. ...

No, this isn't the book you had in mind, although it does intrigue you. You consider checking it out, but you don't have much time before the next branch closes. You go outside and point your feet toward the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 78-60 73 Place, in Glendale, and find yourself on the steps of Glendale Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled A Civil Servant in Burma. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... We all know the story of Cape Breton. Most of us have met people who think that our connection with Burma began in 1885; that Burma regiments are manned by Burman sepoys; that, to cite an alien instance, Bengalis serve in the Indian Army. Even what was long regarded as the mythical confusion of Burma with Bermuda was seriously printed in a London weekly last year, and all the newspapers told how an officer who entered the Army in 1886 served in the Second Burmese War. Errors like these justify the platitudes of the preceding paragraphs. When I first became acquainted with Burma, the system of administration was comparatively simple. The Province consisted of three divisions, each under a Commissioner. Subordinate to the Commissioner were Deputy Commissioners, each in charge of a district. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 2147 Barnes Avenue, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Pelham Parkway–Van Nest Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Woman and Labour,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... He added that there was little in the remnants of paper of which I could make any use, but that he had gathered and stored the fragments till such time as I might be allowed to come and see them. I thus knew my book had been destroyed. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 35-32 21 St, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Ravenswood Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Elias: An Epic of the Ages,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But lo! a loveliness that blooms for aye, That, withering here, is there revivified, A loveliness made lovelier evermore; 90 The beauty of the restful and the risen, Of Paradise[5] and Glory's higher home. Pure as the mountain monarch's ice-crowned crest, Pure as the snow-king's mantle, diamond-strewn, Pure as the cascade's limpid crystalline, Leaping from cliff to chasm, the breeze-flung flood Blown into spirit spray of dazzling sheen; So pure the love that warmed my boyish breast, And lit the yearning of my youthful eye. But pure love, e'en the purest, may be blind. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 524 Main Street, in Manhattan, and find yourself on the steps of Roosevelt Island Library.

While browsing the stacks, something heavy suddenly falls onto your head. 'Ouch!' you shout. But no one is nearby. You rub your cranium and look at the red cloth-covered book that fell on you. 'Sixpenny Pieces,' you mutter. It looks familiar.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... And my income is twelve hundred a year. I used to have a respectable half-guinea practice in Norfolk, and then I was doing eight hundred, and spending it all on dog-carts and dinner-parties. Here I have no expenses at all, except in the matter of top-hats; they insist upon top-hats. And I like the place: I am charmed with the people. Do you like smoked salmon and cold duck?" "I do." "Then come inside, and have some. And have a look at James. James will do you good. James is unique. And I can give you a bed, and I can tell you stories, and show you some fun, too--sideways sort of fun--at sixpence a time." "Sixpenny pieces," I suggested, as his key turned in the lock. II CONCERNING JAMES I have confused impressions of that first visit to the house of Dr. Brink. ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 61 Glenmore Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Brownsville Library.

You walk every aisle, but nothing looks promising. Suddenly, a young woman rushes past you, and a book falls out of her bag. 'Hey!' you call after her, but she has already left. You pick up the book and read the title: Harper's Round Table, October 8, 1895. It has a red cover and a familiar weight in your hand.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... There were four of them in all, heavily armed, and with their faces half concealed by clumsy masks. Fred recognized "Smooth Jim" in the leader of the party, and the sight was not reassuring, even though he was now looking at that gentleman's back. Half mechanically he got out his repair kit, and began to patch the leaking tire. "Where was Jack?" was the question that seemed to dance in letters of fire before his eyes. Could he be lying back there in the road with a bullet in his head? Was he a prisoner? But wait a moment. If Jack was in their hands, why had he been chased? The money was in the bag strapped to Jack's back, and the money was what they were after. But wait again. Was he sure that the horsemen were pursuing him? Might they not have been making their own escape, having secured their booty? ...

This doesn't sound familiar at all. Frowning, you leave the book on a reshelving cart and stride out into the evening air, ready to try another library branch. Maybe your luck will change.


You arrive at 21-45 31 Street, in Long Island City, and find yourself on the steps of Steinway Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean The Girl at Central.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... There was talk in Longwood that he hadn't much money--much, the way the Reddys had always had it--and was going to study law for a living. But he must have had some, for he kept up the house, and had two motors, one just a common roadster and the other a long gray racing car that he'd let out on the turnpike till he was twice arrested and once ran over a dog. My, how well I got to know that car! When I first came I only saw it at long intervals. Then--just as if luck was on my side--I began to see it oftener and oftener, slowing down as it came along Main Street, swinging round the corner, jouncing across the tracks, and dropping out of sight behind the houses at the head of Maple Lane. "What's bringing Jack Reddy in this long way so often?" people would say at first. Then, after a while, when they'd see the gray car, they'd look sly at each other and wink. ...

You stop reading. This isn't your book, this is some other strange text. It bothers you for some reason. You leave it on the shelf and go outside, taking calming breaths. Time to try the next library branch.


You arrive at 2602 Bath Avenue, in Brooklyn, and find yourself on the steps of Ulmer Park Library.

As you walk through the stacks, you bump into a tall woman. 'Excuse me,' you murmur. 'I was just looking for a book.'

She smiles politely and shelves the book she was holding. It's red and looks familiar... Studies of American Fungi. Mushrooms, Edible, Poisonous, etc., it's called. You take it down from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... The Tube Bearing Fungi; Polyporaceae, 171 Chapter X. Hedgehog Fungi; Hydnaceae, 195 Chapter XI. Coral Fungi; Clavariaceae, 200 Chapter XII. The Trembling Fungi; Tremellineae, 204 Chapter XIII. Thelephoraceae, 208 Chapter XIV. Puff-Balls; Lycoperdaceae, 209 Chapter XV. Stinkhorn Fungi; Phalloideae, 213 Chapter XVI. Morels, Cup-Fungi, Helvellas, etc., Discomycetes, 216 Chapter XVII. Collection and Preservation of the Fleshy Fungi, 222 Chapter XVIII. Selection and Preparation of Mushrooms for the Table, 229 Chapter XIX. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


You arrive at 200 Clarke Avenue, in Staten Island, and find yourself on the steps of Richmondtown Library.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Action Front.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... he snapped suddenly and savagely. "You English dog." "I understand," said Macalister. "But I'm no English. I'm a Scot" The crashing of a shell and the whistling of the bullets overhead moved the officer, as it had the others, to a more sheltered place. He seated himself upon an ammunition-box, and pointed to the wall of the trench opposite him. "You," he said to Macalister, "will stand there, where you can get the benefit of any bullets that come over. I suppose you would just as soon be killed by an English bullet as by a German one." Macalister moved to the place indicated. "I'm no anxious," he said calmly, "to be killed by either a British or a German bullet." "Say 'sir' when you speak to me," roared the officer. "Say 'sir. '" Macalister looked at him and said "Sir"--no more and no less. "Have you no discipline in your English army?" he demanded, and Macalister's lips silently formed the words "British Army. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 761 East 160th Street, in the Bronx, and find yourself on the steps of Woodstock Library.

As soon as you enter, you see a familiar-looking red book on display in an exhibit. You snatch it up and read the title: My Little Lady.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... In the evening there will be quite a little society, and we shall dance. I assure you, monsieur, that we also know how to be gay at Chaudfontaine." "I don't doubt it," answered Graham; "and though I don't care much about dancing----" "You don't care about dancing?" interrupted the Belgian with astonishment; "but that is of your nation, Monsieur. You are truly an extraordinary people, you English; you travel, you climb, you ride, you walk, and you do not dance!" "I think we dance too, sometimes," said the young Englishman, laughing; "but I own that it is walking I care for most just now--the country about here seems to be wonderfully pretty." "In fact it is not bad," said the Belgian, with the air of paying it a compliment; "and if you take care to return in time for the four o'clock table-d'hote, you cannot do better than make a little promenade to gain an appetite for dinner. ...

You close the book, disappointed. This is not the book you were thinking of. It must be in a different library. You set off for the next branch on your list.


You arrive at 94-11 217 Street, in Queens Village, and find yourself on the steps of Queens Village Library.

You browse the shelves and find yourself attracted to a book entitled This Is the End. Is this the one you've been looking for?

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... But the real truth was that the tortoise-shell rims were more becoming to her. Mrs. Gustus was known to her husband's family as Anonyma. The origin of this habit was an old joke, and I have forgotten the point of it. Cousin Gustus was second cousin once removed to Kew and Kew's sister Jay, and had kindly brought them up from childhood. He was now at the further end of the sixties, and embittered by many things: an unsuitable marriage, the approach of the psalmist's age-limit, incurably modern surroundings, an internal complaint, and a haunting wish to relieve the Government of the management of the War. These drawbacks were to a certain extent linked, they accounted for each other. The complaint hindered him from offering his services as Secretary of State; it made of him a slave, so he could not pretend to be a master. ...

This is not the book. You snap it shut, beginning to feel despondent. But it might be in a different library. You leave in a hurry for the next branch on your list, just a subway ride away.


This is the last library branch on your list: Mill Basin Library at 2385 Ralph Avenue, in Brooklyn.

You approach a kindly librarian and ask him about the book you're seeking. 'I think it had a red cover,' you add hopefully.

His eyes light up. 'Ah! You must mean Dotty Dimple at Her Grandmother's.' He leads you to the book and plucks it from the shelf.

You flip to a random page and begin to read...

... Susy laughed, and pointed out the word "woman" to Prudy. "Why do you smile, little ladies? Isn't it writ right? 'Twas writ by a lawyer." "I will carry it in to my grandmother," said Susy; and she entered the house, followed by all the children. "Who knows but he's a griller?" said Jennie. "Lem me see paper," cried Katie, snatching at it, and holding it up to her left ear. "O, dear!" sighed she, in a grieved tone; "it won't talk to me, Susy. I don't hear nuffin 'tall." "She's a cunning baby, so she is," said Dotty. "She s'poses writing talks to people; she thinks that's the way they read it." Grandmamma Parlin thought the man was probably an impostor. She went herself and talked with him; but, when she came back, instead of searching the closets for old garments, as Dotty had expected, she seated herself at her sewing, and did not offer to bestow a single copper on the beggar. ...

You smile to yourself. Yes, this book, this is the book. You walk to the checkout desk at 4:59pm, just before the library closes. On the train back to your apartment, you open to page 1.

It's going to be a very good night.

The End

Appendix A

Books you read, in order

Appendix B

Libraries you visited, in order

  • 96th Street Library at 112 East 96th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Jamaica Bay Library at 9727 Seaview Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Clinton Hill Library at 380 Washington Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Kingsbridge Library at 291 West 231st Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Pacific Library at 25 Fourth Ave. at Pacific St., in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Eastchester Library at 1385 East Gun Hill Road, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Flatlands Library at 2065 Flatbush Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Mulberry Street Library at 10 Jersey Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Morrisania Library at 610 East 169th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Science, in Industry and Business Library at 188 Madison Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Brower Park Library at 725 St. Marks Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • New Dorp Library at 309 New Dorp Lane, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Windsor Terrace Library at 60 East 5th Street,N (BPL)
  • Gerritsen Beach Library at 2808 Gerritsen Ave., in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • East Elmhurst Library at 95-06 Astoria Boulevard, in East Elmhurst (QPL)
  • Aguilar Library at 174 East 110th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Lefferts Library at 103-34 Lefferts Boulevard, in Richmond Hill (QPL)
  • Hillcrest at 187-05 Union Turnpike, in Flushing (QPL)
  • East Flatbush Library at 9612 Church Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Jackson Heights Library at 35-51 81 Street, in Jackson Heights (QPL)
  • Woodside Library at 54-22 Skillman Avenue, in Woodside (QPL)
  • Inwood Library at 4790 Broadway, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • West Farms Library at 2085 Honeywell Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Baisley Park Library at 117-11 Sutphin Boulevard, in Jamaica (QPL)
  • Van Cortlandt Library at 3874 Sedgwick Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Pelham Bay Library at 3060 Middletown Road, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Riverside Library at 127 Amsterdam Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Donnell Library Center at 20 West 53rd Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Bushwick Library at 340 Bushwick Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Borough Park Library at 1265 43rd Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • St. George Library Center at 5 Central Avenue, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Cypress Hills Library at 1197 Sutter Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Fresh Meadows Library at 193-20 Horace Harding Expressway, in Fresh Meadows (QPL)
  • Douglaston/Little Neck Library at 249-01 Northern Boulevard, in Little Neck (QPL)
  • Kings Bay Library at 3650 Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Flushing Library at 41-17 Main Street, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Kew Gardens Hills Library at 72-33 Vleigh Place, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Muhlenberg Library at 209 West 23rd Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Laurelton Library at 134-26 225 Street, in Laurelton (QPL)
  • Saratoga Library at 8 Thomas S. Boyland Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Tottenville Library at 7430 Amboy Road, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • 67th Street Library at 328 East 67th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • East Flushing Library at 196-36 Northern Boulevard, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Queensbridge Library at 10-43 41 Ave, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Hamiton Grange Library at 503 West 145th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Carroll Gardens Library at 396 Clinton Sreet, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Lefrak City Library at 98-30 57 Avenue, in Corona (QPL)
  • Rochdale Village Library at 169-09 137 Avenue, in Jamaica (QPL)
  • Allerton Library at 2740 Barnes Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Windsor Park Library at 79-50 Bell Boulevard, in Bayside (QPL)
  • Brooklyn Heights Library at 280 Cadman Plaza West, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Corona Library at 38-23 104 Street, in Corona (QPL)
  • Clason's Point Library at 1215 Morrison Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • City Island Library at 320 City Island Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Battery Park City Library at 175 North End Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • North Forest Park Library at 98-27 Metropolitan Avenue, in Forest Hills (QPL)
  • Soundview Library at 660 Soundview Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Richmond Hill Library at 118-14 Hillside Avenue, in Richmond Hill (QPL)
  • Seward Park Library at 192 East Broadway, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Kings Highway Library at 2115 Ocean Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Red Hook Library at 7 Wolcott Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Stapleton Library at 132 Canal Street, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Highlawn Library at 1664 W. 13th St. at Kings Highway, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Yorkville Library at 222 East 79th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Rosedale Library at 144-20 243 Street, in Rosedale (QPL)
  • Long Island City Library at 37-44 21 Street, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Business & Career Library at 280 Cadman Plaza West, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Court Square Library at 25-01 Jackson Avenue, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Pomonok Library at 158-21 Jewel Avenue, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Terence Cardinal Cooke–Cathedral Library at 560 Lexington Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Parkchester Library at 1985 Westchester Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Fort Hamilton Library at 9424 Fourth Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Sedgwick Library at 1701 Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Jerome Park Library at 118 Eames Place, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Westchester Square Library at 2521 Glebe Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Elmhurst Library at 8508 51st Ave, in Manhatta (QPL)
  • Leonard Library at 81 Devoe Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Arlington Library at 203 Arlington Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Flatbush Library at 22 Linden Boulevard, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Queensboro Hill Library at 60-05 Main Street, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Ozone Park Library at 92-24 Rockaway Boulevard, in Ozone Park (QPL)
  • Astoria Library at 14-01 Astoria Boulevard, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Whitestone Library at 151-10 14 Road, in Whitestone (QPL)
  • Huguenot Park Library at 830 Huguenot Avenue, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Maspeth Library at 69-70 Grand Avenue, in Maspeth (QPL)
  • Melrose Library at 910 Morris Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Great Kills Library at 56 Giffords Lane, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Bayside Library at 214-20 Northern Boulevard, in Bayside (QPL)
  • Macon Library at 361 Lewis Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Mapleton Library at 1702 60th Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Francis Martin Library at 2150 University Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • St. Agnes Library at 444 Amsterdam Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Dongan Hills Library at 1617 Richmond Road, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • North Hills Library at 57-04 Marathon Parkway, in Little Neck (QPL)
  • Queens Central Library at 89-11 Merrick Boulevard, in Jamaica (QPL)
  • Grand Concourse Library at 155 East 173rd Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Wakefield Library at 4100 Lowerre Place, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Hudson Park Library at 66 Leroy Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Homecrest Library at 2525 Coney Island Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Chatham Square Library at 33 East Broadway, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Washington Heights Library at 1000 St. Nicholas Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Marcy Library at 617 DeKalb Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Stephen A. Schwarzman Building at Fifth Avenue at 42nd Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Howard Beach Library at 92-06 156 Avenue, in Howard Beach (QPL)
  • Broad Channel Library at 16-26 Cross Bay Boulevard, in Broad Channel (QPL)
  • Bellerose Library at 250-06 Hillside Avenue, in Bellerose (QPL)
  • St. Albans Library at 191-05 Linden Boulevard, in St Albans (QPL)
  • Kensington Library at 4207 18th Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • McGoldrick Library at 155-06 Roosevelt Ave., in Flushing (QPL)
  • Paerdegat Library at 850 E. 59th Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Todt Hill–Westerleigh Library at 2550 Victory Boulevard, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Park Slope Library at 431 6th Ave., in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Ryder Library at 5902 23rd Ave., in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Kips Bay Library at 446 Third Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Forest Hills Library at 108-19 71 Avenue, in Forest Hills (QPL)
  • Gravesend Library at 303 Avenue X, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • George Bruce Library at 518 West 125th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Stone Avenue Library at 581 Mother Gaston Boulevard, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Eastern Parkway Library at 1044 Eastern Parkway, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Spring Creek Library at 12143 Flatlands Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Walt Whitman Library at 93 Saint Edwards Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Mariner's Harbor Library at 206 South Avenue, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • McKinley Park Library at 6802 Fort Hamilton Parkway, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Greenpoint Library at 107 Norman Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Far Rockaway Library at 1637 Central Avenue, in Far Rockaway (QPL)
  • South Hollis at 204-01 Hollis Avenue, in South Hollis (QPL)
  • Ottendorfer Library at 135 Second Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • New Lots Library at 665 New Lots Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Tremont Library at 1866 Washington Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Dyker Library at 8202 13th Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Crown Heights Library at 560 New York Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Woodlawn Heights Library at 4355 Katonah Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Columbus Library at 742 10th Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Hollis Library at 202-05 Hillside Avenue, in Hollis (QPL)
  • Brooklyn Central Library at 10 Grand Army Plaza, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • New Amsterdam Library at 9 Murray Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Hunt's Point Library at 877 Southern Boulevard, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Tompkins Square Library at 331 East 10th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Hamilton Fish Park Library at 415 East Houston Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • DeKalb Library at 790 Bushwick Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Baychester Library at 2049 Asch Loop North, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Andrew Heiskell Braille and Talking Book Library at 40 West 20th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture at 515 Malcolm X Boulevard, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Bay Ridge Library at 7223 Ridge Boulevard, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Brighton Beach Library at 16 Brighton First Road, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Jefferson Market Library at 425 Avenue of the Americas, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Williamsburgh Library at 240 Division Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • 58th Street Library at 127 East 58th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Arverne Library at 312 Beach 54 Street, in Arverne (QPL)
  • Harlem Library at 9 West 124th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • West New Brighton Library at 976 Castleton Avenue, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Fort Washington Library at 535 West 179th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Webster Library at 1465 York Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Belmont Library and Enrico Fermi Cultural Center at 610 East 186th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Edenwald Library at 1255 East 233rd Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Washington Irving Library at 360 Irving Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • 115th Street Library at 203 West 115th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Briarwood Library at 85-12 Main Street, in Briarwood (QPL)
  • Middle Village Library at 72-31 Metropolitan Avenue, in Middle Village (QPL)
  • Peninsula Library at 92-25 Rockaway Beach Boulevard, in Rockaway Beach (QPL)
  • Morningside Heights Library at 2900 Broadway, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Port Richmond Library at 75 Bennett Street, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Library for the Performing Arts at 40 Lincoln Center Plaza, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Mott Haven Library at 321 East 140th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Woodhaven Library at 85-41 Forest Parkway, in Woodhaven (QPL)
  • Mitchell-Linden Library at 29-42 Union Street, in Flushing (QPL)
  • 125th Street Library at 224 East 125th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Glen Oaks Library at 256-04 Union Turnpike, in Glen Oaks (QPL)
  • Throg's Neck Library at 3025 Cross Bronx Expressway Extension, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • South Ozone Park Library at 128-16 Rockaway Boulevard, in South Ozone Park (QPL)
  • Mid-Manhattan Library at 455 Fifth Avenue, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Midwood Library at 975 East 16th Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Macomb's Bridge Library at 2650 Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Boulevard, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • High Bridge Library at 78 West 168th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Canarsie Library at 1580 Rockaway Parkway, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Sheepshead Bay Library at 2636 East 14th Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Sunnyside Library at 43-06 Greenpoint Avenue, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Grand Central Library at 135 East 46th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Countee Cullen Library at 104 West 136th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • South Jamaica Library at 108-41 Guy R Brewer Boulevard, in Jamaica (QPL)
  • Bronx Library Center at 310 East Kingsbridge Road, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Bedford Library at 496 Franklin Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Sunset Park Library at 5108 4th Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • New Utrecht Library at 1743 86th Street, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Bloomingdale Library at 150 West 100th Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Epiphany Library at 228 East 23rd Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Broadway Library at 4020 Broadway, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Mosholu Library at 285 East 205th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Rugby Library at 1000 Utica Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Clarendon Library at 2035 Nostrand Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Ridgewood Library at 20-12 Madison Street, in Ridgewood (QPL)
  • Auburndale Library at 25 55 Francis Lewis Boulevard, in Flushing (QPL)
  • Spuyten Duyvil Library at 650 West 235th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Rego Park Library at 91-41 63 Drive, in Rego Park (QPL)
  • Seaside Library at 116-15 Rockaway Beach Boulevard, in Rockaway Park (QPL)
  • Coney Island Library at 1901 Mermaid Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Cambria Heights Library at 218-13 Linden Boulevard, in Cambria Heights (QPL)
  • South Beach Library at 21-25 Robin Road, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Castle Hill Library at 947 Castle Hill Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Morris Park Library at 985 Morris Park Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Bay Terrace at 18-36 Bell Boulevard, in Bayside (QPL)
  • Cortelyou Library at 1305 Cortelyou Road, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Riverdale Library at 5540 Mosholu Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Langston Hughes Library at 100-01 Northern Boulevard, in Corona (QPL)
  • Poppenhusen Library at 121-23 14 Avenue, in College Point (QPL)
  • Glendale Library at 78-60 73 Place, in Glendale (QPL)
  • Pelham Parkway–Van Nest Library at 2147 Barnes Avenue, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Ravenswood Library at 35-32 21 St, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Roosevelt Island Library at 524 Main Street, in Manhattan (NYPL)
  • Brownsville Library at 61 Glenmore Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Steinway Library at 21-45 31 Street, in Long Island City (QPL)
  • Ulmer Park Library at 2602 Bath Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)
  • Richmondtown Library at 200 Clarke Avenue, in Staten Island (NYPL)
  • Woodstock Library at 761 East 160th Street, in the Bronx (NYPL)
  • Queens Village Library at 94-11 217 Street, in Queens Village (QPL)
  • Mill Basin Library at 2385 Ralph Avenue, in Brooklyn (BPL)

Code repository on GitHub Code and outputs: CC-BY-NC. Robin Camille Davis, 2016.