Reading Day

Today I was reading through one of my journals from a summer I spent at the Mansion House when I was very young. I found an interesting entry that I thought you might enjoy. Of course, I won't be posting the entire entry, but the rest of it will be found in my novel, should it ever be published. Enjoy.

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[date unreadable]

I woke up yesterday to early morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window. It offended me greatly. I groaned and rolled over, shielding my eyes from the brightness.

I was not surprised to hear Wadsworth’s soothing voice waft through the air from the direction of the light. He said, “You may be interested to learn, young master, that

‘Angels, in the early morning 

May be seen the Dews among.
Stooping – plucking – smiling –flying—‘

And one can’t help but wonder, Sir,

‘Do the Buds to them belong?’"

“What?” I moaned groggily.

“It is nothing of great import, Sir. I merely noticed that a poem by Emily Dickenson is being enacted outside of your window. And if I might dare to hope that anything is at all inspiring to your young self at this early hour, I would hazard that it might in fact be the stooping, plucking angels on yonder lawn.”

“What time is it?”

“It is nigh unto six o’clock am sir.”

I closed my eyes again and covered my face with my hands and groaned, “It’s before six? I’m going back to sleep. Come back in a few hours. ”

“If I may quote William Wordsworth’s observation, Sir,

                ‘Time was, blest Power! When youth and maids
                At peep of dawn would rise,
                And wander forth in forest glades
                Thy birth to solemnize.’”

“What are you talking about Wadsworth? I can pray at nine o’clock just as well as I can at five. Why are you in here? What’s with all the poetry?”

“Forgive me sir; I am merely trying to keep with the spirit of the day. It is, after all, Universal Reading Day today. This is also why I have intruded upon your most sacred morning hours.”

“You woke me up because it’s reading day? Leave me alone.”

“Perhaps you would reconsider, Sir? The books won’t respond well to neglect today.”

“What are you talking about? The books don’t care. They’re books. Come back at nine.” I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow.

Wadsworth hesitated for a half second before he responded, “Very well sir, I shall do my best to see that you are allowed your usual morning indulgences. Rest well while you can, Sir.”

I yawned a half hearted “thank you” through the pillow, and was asleep again in no time.

I don’t think that it was more than a half hour later, probably around 6:30, when a racket from outside my room woke me. I heard menacing growls that made me think of rabid dogs and an unending fluttering of paper. Above it all, I heard Wadsworth’s voice ringing out clear and commanding, “Back fiends! The young master needs his rest! He is a growing young man with less than efficient energy expenditure. You must be patient!”

I threw off my covers and ran to the door, throwing it open. The corridor was filled with books from wall to wall, and from floor to ceiling. They flapped open and shut in the most menacing way possible. In the narrow gap between the door and the books stood Wadsworth, faithful and stalwart, broom in hand, defending my position.

At my appearance the noise intensified, and a book from the top of the stack launched itself from the pile. It was so fast that didn't have time to react, and it would have hit me in the head with force if it hadn’t been for Wadsworth. He swatted the book from the air with the broom. It yelped loudly and fell to the floor whimpering and crying at his feet. Wadsworth raised the broom in defense once more, waiting for another attacker. There was a kind of anguish in his face though – a horror filled regret.

I looked down at the book. It sprawled across its pages with the spine upward. The title was printed boldly on the spine. “Lyrical Balads.” Poetry. I’d made Wadsworth hit a poetry book. I felt awful. I felt even worse when I picked it up and saw the author, “William Wordsworth.”

On the upside, the second I had the book in hand the room fell instantly silent. The books were merely books again – inanimate and voiceless. Wadsworth turned to me and said, “I’m sorry to have woken you, Sir. I did my best to hold them off at the bottom of the staircase, but alas, there were too many of them and I steadily lost ground.” Wadsworth’s tone was composed as usual, but there was a slight waver to it, surely suppressed pain over what he had been forced to do.

“Wadsworth,” I said, “You’re a true friend. I’m sorry.” My voice broke a little on the “I’m” I don't know if that was because I felt so sorry or because my voice has been cracking a lot lately. Either way, I really did mean it.

“Perhaps it was for the best, Sir. That book was already in need of repair. Now that it is further damaged, I will more easily justify taking the time to attend to it. Will you be returning to bed, Sir?”

“Um, no,” I said, “I’m not very tired anymore. I think I’m ready to start reading.” I glanced at the enormous pile. Do you think they can wait for me to put on some pants?”

Wadsworth took a defensive stance and brandished his broom again. “I will see to it that they do sir.”