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"
"This," said Dr. Parkman, who was dusting Gibbon's Rome, "is the sort of
thing that is called the backbone of a library."
"Consequently," replied Georgia glibly, "we will put it up here on the
top shelf. Nobody wants a library's backbone. It's to be had, not read.
Now the trimmings, like our friend Mr. Shaw here, must be given places of
accessibility."
The host was picking his way around among the contents of a box which he
had just emptied upon the floor. The hostess was yielding to the
temptation of an interesting bit which had caught her eye in dusting "An
Attic Philosopher in Paris."
"Now here," said Dr. Hubers, picking up a thick, green book, "is Walt
Whitman and that means trouble. No one is going to know whether he is
prose or poetry."
"When art weds science," observed Georgia, "the resulting library is
difficult to manage. Mr. Haeckel and Mr. Maeterlinck may not like being
bumped up here together."
"Then put Haeckel somewhere else," said Ernestine, looking up from her
book.


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