The Land of Story-books

Robert Louis Stevenson

At evening when the lamp is lit,

Around the fire my parents sit;

They sit at home and talk and sing,

And do not play at anything.

Now, with my little gun, I crawl

All in the dark along the wall,

And follow round the forest track

Away behind the sofa back.

There, in the night, where none can spy,

All in my hunter’s camp I lie,

And play at books that I have read

Till it is time to go to bed.

These are the hills, these are the woods,

These are my starry solitudes;

And there the river by whose brink

The roaring lions come to drink.

I see the others far away

As if in firelit camp they lay,

And I, like to an Indian scout,

Around their party prowled about.

So, when my nurse comes in for me,

Home I return across the sea,

And go to bed with backward looks

At my dear land of Story-books.

Why do we read stories?  For the adventure of it.  If you want to see the world, travel back in time or into the future, fight dragons, feast with kings, summit mountains or stalk the jungles, then you must read.  For as Emily Dickinson said, “[t]here is no Frigate like a Book to take us Lands away.”  Enjoy the sheer adventure of whatever you’re reading today…

And have a wonderful day.