Found this old, treasured book in one of the last boxes I unpacked. The forward was dated 1912, and there was no copyright date at all. Inside, the nameplate on the flyleaf bore the carefully penned signature of a boy of eight or nine: James Thomas. I brought the book into the house and presented it to my father. A slow, sweet smile crossed his lips as he opned the crumbling cover and looked at his own name, written almost 70 years ago.
"Books are our friends."