The first book I remember (excepting several Dickens novels, flotsam of an abandoned attic library) is a cheap, ill-favored, coarsely printed volume of “Bill” Nye’s sketches, elegantly entitled _Baled Hay_. I discovered it in a corner of the village postoffice, where there were a couple of shelves of nondescript books--cheap in every sense: in price, binding and contents--which served as the sole local excuse for a bookstore. This copy of “Bill” Nye is the link between my boyish and my mature reading. Nye is the one author whom I enjoy to this day in precisely the same spirit and to the same degree that I enjoyed him as a boy. This fact indicates his limitation and his peculiar appeal. He is…
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