And so, we come to the end of the list. It’s fitting to have, if not the best, then at least the most cherished, for last. I had no trouble at all picking this one. It’s been with me my entire life. My mother read to me out of it when I was just a little girl, instilling in me the beginning of a love of words, of the rhythm of language, of poetry. I loved it then and I love it now. I remember gazing at the little cameo pictures of the authors that accompanied each entry, most passed on, some still alive at the time, now surely all gone. I loved the fineness of the pages, the delicacy of the paper that was almost, but not quite, transparent. I don’t know where it came from, don’t know who in my family first got it or why. Was it assigned reading or bought for pleasure? The people who could have told me are gone now and so I’ll never know. I also am pretty sure that no one else in my family would be particularly interested in this book, and I find that terribly sad. Perhaps I should have read more to my daughter out of it. Maybe that would have had some influence on her, who knows? The time for reading aloud to my grandsons is pretty well past and my new granddaughter is too far away and not likely to get any closer. It’s okay. I’ll cherish this book for what it means to me and when the time comes, somone will be the right person to pass it to. And in the meantime, if the house ever catches fire, it’s coming with me.