THE BOOK-HUNTER

by: Frank Dempster Sherman (1860-1916)

CUP of coffee, eggs, and rolls

Sustain him on his morning strolls:

Unconscious of the passers-by,

He trudges on with downcast eye;

He wears a queer old hat and coat,

Suggestive of a style remote;

His manner is preoccupied,--

A shambling gait, from side to side.

For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop

Is all in vain, -- he does not stop.

His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves

Where musty volumes hide themselves,--

Rare prints of poetry and prose,

And quaintly lettered folios,--

Perchance a parchment manuscript,

In some forgotten corner slipped,

Or monk-illumined missal bound

In vellum with brass clasps around;

These are the pictured things that throng

His mind the while he walks along.

 

A dingy street, a cellar dim,

With book-lined walls, suffices him.

The dust is white upon his sleeves;

He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves

With just the same religious look

That priests give to the Holy Book.

He does not heed the stifling air

If so he find a treasure there.

He knows rare books, like precious wines,

Are hidden where the sun ne’er shines;

For him delicious flavors dwell

In books as in old Muscatel;

He finds in features of the type

A clew to prove the grape was ripe.

And when he leaves this dismal place,

Behold, a smile lights up his face!

Upon his cheeks a genial glow,--

Within his hand Boccaccio,

A first edition worn with age,

“Firenze” on the title-page.

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