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THREE TIMES CHARMED
RETURNING TO ROCKY RIDGE - BOOK 3
APRIL MURDOCK
 CONTENTS

Three Times Charmed

April Murdock
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
Copyright © 2023 April Murdock and Sweet River Publishing

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems. Publisher expressly prohibits any form of reproduction.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to names, characters, organizations, places, events, or incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THREE TIMES CHARMED
RETURNING TO ROCKY RIDGE - BOOK 3

APRIL MURDOCK
CHAPTER ONE
Brooke
I TOOK IN A DEEP BREATH AND LET IT OUT IN A CONTENTED SIGH. THE WORK TO GET THE MARIGOLD
Festival ready was more than I had expected, but it was definitely worth it. The whole town had
turned out. I didn’t know if they were here because they finally saw my sisters and me for what we
could truly offer this place or if it was something else, but I didn’t care.
The only thing that I could have prepared better for was the number of food trucks. There didn’t seem
to be enough food for everyone in attendance.
Maybe next year we could contract with more vendors and move some of the seating indoors. The
Steer House had been really flexible with their menu lately, accepting the recommendations I had
suggested for vegan options.
It looked like everything was finally turning out okay.
Normally, I’d be freaking out. And just beneath the surface, I could feel my heart primed and ready to
take off, sprinting at the first sign of trouble.
But I’d planned everything from start to finish, and this was going to be the best festival Rocky Ridge
had ever seen.
I couldn’t help but glance over to the vegan taco truck I had requested from Billings. It was just as
popular, if not more so, than the other options being offered. There really was a way to merge the
vegan lifestyle with the ranchers out here, and that thought thrilled me to pieces.
My phone dinged, and I pulled it out of my pocket. A text message appeared on the main screen.

KELSEY : Heading to Twisted Rivers for more samples. You need anything?

I ROLLED MY EYES . Hadn’t I told her this exact thing would happen? Based on how crowded the town
continued to become, I knew we’d need more steak samples.

NOPE. All good.

I STOOD on my toes to peer over several heads toward our booth. Twisted Rivers Ranch was making
quite a name for itself. The product that came from our ranch was top notch, and everyone knew it.
I grinned, watching my sister and her fiancé work. They really were two peas in a pod. And Tanner
brought out the best in Kelsey. Then my happiness dimmed somewhat.
Out of the three of us, I was supposed to be the one who had everything together. If not me, Paige was
the second runner. But as I watched my sisters continue on to bigger and better things, I was left
wondering why I felt like I was failing.
Paige’s wedding day was quickly approaching, and Kelsey was already looking into adopting
Jackson the second that her marriage was finalized. They had their whole futures ahead of them, and
they knew exactly what they wanted. How did I end up being the last one to the finish line?
The ironic thing was that I didn’t even want to get married. Not anytime soon, anyway. I was the one
who finished college. I was the one who ran a successful non-profit to advocate for the humane
treatment of animals. On top of all of that, I had a social media presence and the support of millions
for my work with environmental activism.
So why did I feel like something was missing?
That tremor in my chest started up again, and I had to focus on taking longer, slower breaths to quell
it. Not now. I didn’t need to be anxious about where my future was headed. There were more
important things to worry about. Like the Marigold Festival. I closed my eyes and pictured the ranch
and my meditation shed that I’d recently constructed.
Slowly my heartrate settled, and I found my happy place again.
My phone dinged, and I heaved a sigh.
What did Kelsey need now?

UNKNOWN : Take your tofu, bad ideas, and leave. Or else.

I STARED at the message on my screen then glanced up and let my gaze sweep through the crowd of
people. I didn’t recognize the number. I’d never gotten a message like this before. Whoever it was
could be playing a prank. That’s all it was, right?
My breaths shortened, and my heart shook. I dug my fingernails into my palms, hoping the painful
sensation would ground me enough to help me get through the afternoon. Then when it was all over, I
could show my sisters and ask them what they thought of it.
Scratch that. Paige and Kelsey didn’t need to be bothered by this if it wasn’t serious. This had to be a
prank. I would be fine. Haters were normal. It came with the territory of being an activist, especially
in a town full of carnivore cowboys.
I nodded sharply. Just a hater that needed to be blocked. I had no idea how they got ahold of my
number, but based on how widespread this festival had become, I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t
have a hard time getting their hands on it.
Before I had a chance to block the offending number, I was bombarded.
“Miss Holt, I’d love to take your statement.” A woman held a press badge in front of my face. “Jade
from the Rocky Ridge Daily. I’d love to ask you a few questions about the festival.”
I smiled. “I’m happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“Wonderful.” Jade turned to the tablet in her hand then glanced once more at me. “Was this the vision
you had for the festival? What would you like to tell not only the locals but those in surrounding
towns?”
I let my gaze sweep through the street, taking in all the happy faces and reveled in my
accomplishment. Finally, I set my gaze on Jade. “The Marigold Festival isn’t just a way to bring the
community together. It’s not just to celebrate the local produce and small businesses. This festival is a
way to showcase sustainability and taking responsibility for the environment. It’s a way to empower
people to face the future and adapt rather than fear it.”
“Do you find you have had any resistance? A community such as this one is bound to have a hard time
with some of your views.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” I admitted. “Starting out, it was hard to help folks around here see that there is a
way to blend their way of life with people who have similar views as mine. But I’ve had a lot more
success lately. The Duncan Ranch and the Breakstone Ranch are joining Twisted Rivers in my Green
Tick Endeavor. That’s a—”
“Do you really think a California socialite has anything valuable to teach folks who have been
farming for generations?”
Her question took me off guard. Applause erupted around us, and I realized a small group had
surrounded us. Okay, so not everyone was a fan of what I was trying to accomplish out here. I
swallowed hard and fought to keep my cool. I was expecting there to be more resistance to this event
than I’d previously received. I just didn’t think I’d be on the record when defending myself.
I cleared my throat and lifted my head high. “I am a product of a ranch family. I spent half of my life
growing up in this very town.” I glanced around at the people who were listening intently then my eye
connected with a statue that had been around long before any of them. I pointed to the weathered,
copper, cowboy statue. “I have photos of myself with that statue when I was a toddler.” Lifting my
chin higher, my confidence returning, I set my firm gaze on Jade once more. “Change is inevitable. I’d
rather take life by the horns than get thrown by it. I’m guessing most of the folks around here feel the
same way.”
A larger group had formed, circling the two of us and their cheers rivaled what I’d heard before.
Their cacophonous supportive reaction, combined with my erratic beating heart and my shallow
breaths made it difficult to focus.
I was familiar with these sensations. I knew what was coming if I didn’t get out of there and
decompress. But if I took off at this very moment, that might give Jade more fuel to add to the fire
she’d created.
Fighting to keep my voice steady, I took a small step closer to her. The crowds were dispersing, but I
needed to say my piece. “This Californian socialite has had to deal with much worse than the likes
of you. If you want to start a fight, do yourself a favor and prepare a little better.” I forced a wide
smile, even though, on the inside I felt myself crumbling. “Thank you for your time,” I murmured
sweetly.
I ducked through the lingering onlookers and darted behind a stand of local peaches. The ranchers had
set up a tent that was open only on one side, which offered me some privacy to get my head on
straight.
My fingers were numb, and my legs felt like they might give out from under me and cause me to
collapse into a heap. I hunched over, placing my hands on my knees as I sucked in deep breaths. I
squeezed my eyes shut, praying no one would catch me in this weak position.
Ten…nine…
My therapist didn’t know what she was talking about. How was counting backward supposed to settle
me? The only thing that helped was making sure I controlled every aspect of my life. Then there were
no surprises.
Five…four…
My phone dinged, and I reminded myself I was still in charge. I had responsibilities I had to handle.

UNKNOWN : No one wants you here. Get out of Rocky Ridge before someone gets hurt.

IMMEDIATELY AFTER I read the message, an image came through. Chills swept down my spine, turning
my whole body cold as I stared at a picture of myself chatting with Jade. Whoever took this picture
had been close enough they could have reached out to touch me. Or worse. They meant business.
There was no way to believe that the messages weren’t a real threat.
My heart reacted just as I expected it to. My palms went clammy, and my legs buckled beneath me. I
sucked in sharply, breathing far too fast to be healthy. At this point, I wasn’t even sure I could tell
Paige or Kelsey. If someone was targeting me and not them, then pulling them into this mess would
only put them under fire.
I raked a hand through my hair and closed my eyes again. I needed to get out of here, but the problem
was, I came with Kelsey in her SUV. I had no way to escape. I knew better than to make any rash
decisions in my current state of mind. If I could get home, I could make a few calls, and I could try to
figure out who might be targeting me based on the hate messages I’d received through my social
channels.
There had to be someone who could help me get out of here. If I could find even one person who
might be willing to take me back to Twisted Rivers, then I could message Paige and tell her that she
needed to cover for me just for a little while.
I got to my feet, my legs still shaky. The closest building was The Steer House. I’d get a glass of
water, get my blood pumping the right way, and regroup.
CHAPTER TWO
Finn
F INDING PARKING WAS AN ABSOLUTE NIGHTMARE. ROCKY RIDGE USED TO BE A QUIET GETAWAY FROM
the hustle and bustle of Billings. Even the people in town could barely find it on a map. I was bumped
into and shoved as I made my way across town to The Steer House.
What in heaven’s name was going on in this place?
Banners and signs were all over the town, showcasing new vegan food and promoting green
initiatives. It was like Rocky Ridge had been taken over by aliens, and the people were happy hosts.
I shook my head, grimacing as I took note of a vegan taco truck. Bleck. Tacos were made with meat—
hardy, raised in big pastures, grass-fed beef. What was this world coming to?
I pushed open the front doors to The Steer House and glanced around, thankful to be out of the
nonsense that was taking place outside. There was a bar on the far right of the room with a selection
of high tables meant to be an extension of it. To my left were several tables and booths, probably to
cater to the families in this town. My stomach knotted. If everything went right, maybe I could bring
my mother here.
Glancing over my shoulder through the double-paned windows of the door, I let out a groan. When I’d
arrived in Rocky Ridge, it was to try to get myself a job—at a specific ranch—not attend a festival.
There were far too many people in town right now; it gave small towns like this a bad name. Where
were people supposed to go to get away from it all? Where were folks supposed to go to get a morsel
of peace?
I removed the hat from my head and held it in both of my hands. First things first. I needed to find
Jeremy, sooner rather than later, if I wanted to make sure everything would work out the way I
planned.
My gaze dipped to a sign near the hostess’s reservation podium, and my lip curled in disgust. Right
beneath the rib eye with caramelized onions was scrawled in bold, chalk letters, pumpkin tortellini.
Beside that were the words “vegan option available.” Now I’d seen everything.
“Finn, is that you?”
My head snapped up, and I looked in the direction the voice had originated. Two cowboys sat at the
bar, now twisted around and waving toward me. A smile spread across my face, and I strode over to
them. “Bud, Jim, I thought you guys would have retired by now.”
The older gentlemen chuckled, and Bud gestured toward a stool. “Take a seat. First drink’s on me.”
He held up a finger to the bartender, and I placed my hat on the stool beside me.
Jim clapped me on the back. “What has it been? Fifteen years? Last time we saw you, you were green
behind the ears.”
The last time I was in Rocky Ridge, I’d gotten a gig for a summer. “Yeah, I was just passing through.”
“We didn’t think you’d make it. How’s it going?” Bud took a long pull of his beer, and they both
looked at me intently.
I offered a smile, not wanting to give too much information. The last thing I needed was for a few
certain things to be found out. “I’m back—for the long haul this time.” I took a sip of my drink then
leaned closer to them. “I was hoping to get a job at Twisted Rivers, but I haven’t been able to track
down Jeremy. Have you seen him by chance?” I made a quick sweep of the bar but didn’t see the man
I knew from my teenage years.
Bud exchanged a look with Jim who snorted. “You’re not gonna find him hangin’ around.”
My brows creased as my gaze bounced from one man to the next. “Did something happen to him?”
Jim chuckled and placed his mug on the bar before turning to me. “I’d say so. His ranch was taken
over by three California airheads.”
As if against my will, I glanced toward the door. I’d bumped into a couple of folks before coming in
here. The cowboy worked for the ranch. Was the woman with him one of those California airheads? I
swung my attention back to Joe. “What happened? Why did he leave?”
“Oh, he didn’t leave. He got the boot. As soon as those three showed up, everything changed.”
Bud nodded, nursing his beer once more. “You notice all that chaos out there? Those idiotic ideas are
spreading like a plague on this town. Have you ever seen such a blatant display of disrespect? This is
a threat to our way of life—the old west, good ol’ cowboys.”
Jim lifted his mug. “Here. Here. If I had a say, this festival wouldn’t have even happened.”
“Did I hear you three commenting on the festival?”
I turned my head to glance over my shoulder at the woman who had managed to materialize behind
me. She wore a press badge with the name Jade in big bold letters. In her hand, she held a tablet. She
smiled warmly at the three of us.
“I’m writing an article on the festival, and I’d love to get all the input I can on the matter. Would any
of you be willing to make a statement?”
I chuckled then shook my head. “You don’t want my opinion. I don’t really live here.”
Jim nudged me. “You’re as much a cowboy as the rest of us. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Lifting a shoulder, I spun around on my stool and rested my hands on my knees. “Sure, why not? What
do you want to know?”
Jade’s smile spread slowly from ear to ear. “Fantastic. Just tell me what you feel about the festival,
the changes happening here in town, anything you’re happy or…unhappy about.”
I rubbed my jaw. The people responsible for firing Jeremy were the same ones who planned this
festival. From what I could tell, they could use being taken down a few pegs. “There’s a reason why
cowboys don’t settle in cities. We moved out west so we could have the things that matter most to us.”
“And what is that?”
“Guns, horses, and freedom.”
The men beside me clapped. “You tell her, son.”
Bolstered by their support, I slid off my seat and continued. “Cowboys aren’t meant to be put in a
box. We’re open-range kind of men. We fight for what we believe in, and I’m willing to do whatever
it takes to preserve my freedom. The men out here don’t want regulation. We want to go where we
want and do what we want. And that isn’t being force-fed pumpkin tortellini.”
More cheers, not just from my two companions, but from the surrounding cowboys who were close
enough to hear my little speech.
Jade tapped her fingers on the screen, her manicured nails clicking rapidly. “This is wonderful. You
make such great points.”
“And one more thing. If anyone thinks they can invade our sanctuary with their new-age ways and try
to change the good folks of Rocky Ridge, they have another thing coming. They should just turn around
and head back to where they came from.”
Jade ended her tapping with a flourish just as the guests around us started their applause. They
whooped and cheered me on while the bartender got me another drink.
“It’s on the house,” he murmured as he shook my hand.
Jade tucked her tablet into a satchel at her waist and offered her hand to me. “It was lovely chatting
with you, Mr….”
I grasped onto her hand, shaking it firmly. “Stevens. Finn Stevens.”
“Well, Mr. Stevens, I hope you have a wonderful day and thank you so much for sticking up for the
rights of the good people of Rocky Ridge.”
“Anytime.” I watched her head toward the door and then reality set in.
I needed a local job. Jeremy had been my only contact that was still running things. He was My only
contact that would give me an in at a ranch job around here. Jim and Bud were on the older side of
this career path. While they might have some good contacts, I didn’t know if they’d be able to help me
secure anything close enough to Twisted Rivers.
Holding up my mug with appreciation, I snatched my hat before I moved over to a booth where I
could get some peace and quiet. I did my best thinking when I didn’t have the distraction of others.
Jim and Bud were nice enough, but they couldn’t stop talking about how much they hated what was
happening here on a local level.
With Jeremy out of the picture, I needed to do some research to find the closest ranches. Then I
needed to cross-reference which ones were actively hiring and would be willing to take on a cowboy
who hadn’t been working a ranch for a few years.
My elbow dropped down on the table, and I placed my head in my hand. I pinched the bridge of my
nose. I should be used to this by now. Nothing usually worked out the first time for me. The people in
my life growing up had seen to that. Between an abusive stepfather, a mother who didn’t know how to
stand up for herself, and a brother who I hadn’t seen in over a decade, I had learned real quick that I
just wasn’t the lucky kind.
The town was filled with people. The best chance I had to get a job was probably wandering the
streets and asking around. I hated groveling.
I tossed back the last of my drink before glancing around the restaurant. Most of the patrons right now
were either too old or strangers. I wouldn’t get very far with them. There were several booths set up
outside. That would be the better place to start.
With my hat on my head, and a tip thrown on the table, I drew on that determination to set things right
and fix what needed to be done.
Rising from my booth seat, I turned and headed for the door just as a woman exited the hallway
leading to the bathrooms. Time slowed down. I could have sworn she was moving in slow motion.
She looked familiar somehow, though I couldn’t place her. There was something about her that drew
my focus and refused to release me. She had the prettiest blonde hair I had ever seen. I wasn’t a
romantic, but even I thought it looked like spun silk.
Dressed in a bandana-print shirt and a pair of jeans that came to her mid-calf, she looked like she
belonged here.
Suddenly time sped up. She wasn’t looking where she was going, and I’d been so entranced by her
beauty that my reflexes failed me. This angel of a woman rammed right into me.
She let out a yelp, stumbled back a step, and glanced around the room before meeting my gaze. Her
mouth fell open, and she looked through the restaurant for a second time. Her blue eyes were wild,
somehow. The lines on her face indicated she was scared of something.
Before I could apologize for being distracted or ask if she was okay, she grabbed onto my shirt and
tugged on me. I thought for sure we’d end up colliding for a second time, but all she did was stand on
her toes and lean in even closer.
“Help me,” she whispered, “I need to get out of here.”
CHAPTER THREE
Brooke
I MUST HAVE HIT MY HEAD OR SOMETHING . WHAT WAS I THINKING ?
There was no logical explanation for asking a guy that I had never even met for help.
This cowboy could very likely be the one behind the threats. He looked like every other person
outside in the group that had been observing my interview with Jade.
My cheeks flushed hot, and I looked away from this cowboy who had deep, hunter-green eyes. They
were kind—the sort of eyes that you knew were genuine, and they were full of concern. It was no
wonder why it was so hard to pull my attention from them.
Before I could take two steps away from him and apologize for the misunderstanding, his hand
wrapped around mine. He grasped me more firmly than I expected, and a gasp slipped from my throat.
“You’re running from someone, aren’t you?”
My eyes widened. How did he know it was a someone I was scared of?
He glanced toward the windows then swung his focus back to me. His eyes narrowed and his brows
creased. “They’re out there.” It wasn’t a question. This guy had to have had some experience with
something like this. There was no other reasonable explanation for his reactions. He didn’t even
know me.
Against my better judgment, I nodded. I had become immobilized by everything that had occurred
since that first text message to this moment with this man. Something in my gut told me that while I
didn’t want to trust him, right now I didn’t have a choice. I needed someone to help me until I could
figure out what to do next.
The stranger tugged on my hand, pulling me toward the back of the restaurant. He glanced toward the
door then set his serious gaze on me before yanking off his hat. “Here put this on. Tuck your hair
beneath it. We don’t want anyone recognizing you when we get out there.”
For a moment, I stood stunned. His hair was a splash of color I hadn’t seen before, not naturally
anyway. It was an auburn color the people in California could only dream of getting, but I didn’t see
this rugged cowboy being the type to dye his hair.
He stared at me, and I froze. Why was he looking at me like that? He grabbed the hat from my hands
and placed it on my head. “Tuck your hair into it,” he repeated.
This time I did as I was told.
Next, he shrugged out of his denim jacket and shoved it toward me. I fingered the flannel lining,
surprised to find a cowboy who didn’t have his clothing lined with fur. Granted it was usually a fifty-
fifty sort of situation around here. Either they had faux fur, or they had the real deal. But this cowboy
didn’t have any of that.
He let out an exasperated sound and draped the jacket around my shoulders. “Now, I’m going to take
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHAT

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History of Christian Names. New Edition. Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d.
The Life of John Coleridge Patteson, Missionary Bishop. 2 vols.
crown 8vo. 12s.
The Pupils of St. John. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 6s.
Pioneers and Founders; or, Recent Workers in the Mission Field.
Crown 8vo. 6s.
The Herb of the Field: Reprinted from “Chapters on Flowers” in The
Magazine for the Young. A New Edition, Revised. Crown 8vo.
5s.

THE GIFT-BOOK OF THE YEAR. With nearly 400 Pictures.

The Globe says:—“The illustrations in this magazine continue to be
the most artistic published in any English miscellany.”

The English Illustrated Magazine, 1887.

A Handsome Volume, consisting of over 800 closely-printed
pages, and containing nearly 400 Woodcut Illustrations of various
sizes, bound in extra cloth, coloured edges, price 8s.

A MAGAZINE FOR EVERY HOUSEHOLD.

The Guardian says:—“The English Illustrated Magazine is
full of good matter in the way both of writing and drawing.... It is a
capital magazine for all tables and all times.”
 The English Illustrated Magazine
(PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED).
Published Monthly. Single Numbers, price 6d.; by post, 8d. Yearly
Subscription, including Double Number, post-free, 8s.
The English Illustrated Magazine is designed for the
entertainment of the home, and for the instruction and amusement of
young and old, and it is conducted in the belief that every section of
its readers, in whatever direction their tastes and interests may tend,
are prepared to demand and to appreciate the best that can be
offered to them.

MACMILLAN & CO., London.

 WHAT BOOKS TO LEND
AND
WHAT TO GIVE

BY
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE
AUTHOR OF
‘THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE’ ‘CAMEOS FROM ENGLISH HISTORY’ ETC.

LONDON
National Society’s Depository
SANCTUARY, WESTMINSTER
[All rights reserved]
PRINTED BY
SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
LONDON
 CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 5
LITTLE ONES 16
JUNIOR CLASSES 19
SENIOR CLASSES 22
BOYS 29
DRAWING-ROOM STORIES 35
ON THE CATECHISM 41
ON CONFIRMATION 43
ON THE PRAYER-BOOK 44
BOOKS BEARING ON HOLY SCRIPTURE 46
ALLEGORIES AND ALLEGORICAL TALES 51
HISTORICAL TALES 55
MYTHOLOGY 68
NOVELETTES AND NOVELS 70
FAIRY TALES 75
MOTHERS’ MEETINGS 77
FOR MISSIONARY WORKING-PARTIES 85
IMPROVING BOOKS 88
HISTORY 93
BIOGRAPHY 96
CHURCH HISTORY 99
NATURAL HISTORY 101
SCIENCE AND INVENTION 104
RELIGIOUS BOOKS 106
MAGAZINES 108
PENNY READINGS 111
INDEX 117
 WHAT BOOKS TO LEND
AND
WHAT TO GIVE.

INTRODUCTION.
Wholesome and amusing literature has become almost a
necessity among the appliances of parish work. The power of
reading leads, in most cases, to the craving for books. If good be not
provided, evil will be only too easily found, and it is absolutely
necessary to raise the taste so as to lead to a voluntary avoidance of
the profane and disgusting.
Books of a superior class are the only means of such cultivation. It
has been found that where really able and interesting literature is to
be had, there is much less disposition to prey upon garbage. And the
school lessons on English have this effect, that they make book-
language comprehensible far more widely than has hitherto been the
case.
A library is an almost indispensable adjunct to a school, if the
children are to be lured to stay at home instead of playing
questionable games in the dark, or by gaslight, out of doors; and an
amusing story is the best chance of their not exasperating the weary
father with noise. If the boy is not to betake himself to ‘Jack
Sheppard’ literature, he must be beguiled by wholesome adventure.
If the girl is not to study the ‘penny dreadful,’ her notions must be
refined by the tale of high romance or pure pathos.
The children at school are often eager readers, especially if they
have sensible parents who forbid roaming about in the evening.
There ought always to be a school library unless the children are
provided for in the general parish library; but even this requires
careful selection. Weak, dull, or unnatural books may be absolutely
harmful when falling into rude or scornful hands. For instance, a
country lad should not have a book where a farmer gives a prize for
climbing an elm-tree to take a blackbird’s nest, such a proceeding
being equally against the nature of farmers, blackbirds, and elms.
Seafaring lads should not have incorrectly worded accounts of
wrecks; and where more serious matters come in, there should be
still greater care to be strong, true, and real. Boys especially should
not have childish tales with weak morality or ‘washy’ piety; but
should have heroism and nobleness kept before their eyes; and
learn to despise all that is untruthful or cowardly and to respect
womanhood. True manhood needs, above all earthly qualities, to be
impressed on them, and books of example (not precept) with heroes,
whose sentiments they admire, may always raise their tone,
sometimes individually, sometimes collectively.
Men, however, must have manly books. Real solid literature alone
will arrest their attention. They grudge the trouble of reading what
they do not accept as truth, unless it is some book whose fame has
reached their ears, and to have read which they regard as an
achievement.
Where grown men are subscribers to a library, it should have
standard works of well-known reputation.
Travels, biographies, not too long, poetry, histories of
contemporaneous events, and fiction of the kind that may be called
classical, should be the staple for them. It is hardly advisable to
attempt to give a list for them. Their books belong to general
literature, with which I do not wish to meddle, and besides, reading
men mostly inhabit towns where there are generally Institutes from
which they can obtain books. In the country, when the clever cobbler
or gardener soars above the village library, he will generally have a
decided notion of what he wants, and will respect a special loan from
our own shelves. He may take to some line in natural science, or
have some personal cause for interest in a colony; but in general,
the labourer would rather smoke than read in his hours of rest, and
even when laid aside in a hospital, newspaper scraps pasted into a
book are often more welcome to him than more continuous subjects.
Above all, he resents being written down to or laughed at; and calling
him Hodge and Chawbacon is the sure way to alienate him.
Books with strong imitations of dialect are to be avoided. They are
almost unintelligible to those who know the look of a word in its right
spelling, though they might miscall it, and do not recognise it when
phonetically travestied to imitate a local dialect, as for instance by ah
for I. Moreover, they feel it a caricature of their language, and are
very reasonably insulted. They do not appreciate simplicity, but are
in the stage of civilisation when long words are rather preferred,
partly as a compliment, partly as a new language. Complicated
phrases are often too much for them, but polysyllables need not be
avoided, if such are really needed to express an idea, and will do it
better than any shorter word.
Though men either read with strong appetites or not at all, their
wives, in these days of education, generally love fiction. They do not
want to be improved, but they like to lose their cares for a little while
in some tale that excites either tears or laughter. It is all very well to
say that they ought to have no time for reading. An industrious thrifty
woman has little or none, but the cottager’s wife who does as little
needlework, washing, or tidying as possible, has a good many hours
to spend in gossip or in reading. She may get cheap sensational
novels, and the effects on a weak and narrow mind are often very
serious. The only thing to be done is to take care that she has
access to a full supply of what can do her no harm, and may by
reiteration do her good, though the links between book and action
are in many cases never joined. Sometimes they are not connected
at all, sometimes a strong impression is unexpectedly made. But this
class of women must have incident, pathos, and sentiment to attract
them. The old-fashioned book where Betty rebukes Polly in set
language for wearing a red cloak instead of a grey one, and eating
new bread instead of old, will meet with no attention. But if the moral
of the tale be sound, and the tone of the characters who bespeak
sympathy, high, pure, and good, the standard of the reader, however
frivolous, must be insensibly raised. At any rate, by withholding
books because the cottage woman ought to be too busy to want
them, we do not render her more industrious, but we leave her
exposed to catering for herself in undesirable regions.
There remain the thrifty, sensible, good women who, if they read at
all, do so in their Sunday leisure, and like a serious book. Neither
variety of woman likes a book manifestly for children lent to
themselves, though they do enjoy anything about a baby from the
maternal point of view.
There are such different degrees of intelligence and civilisation
among the women who frequent mothers’ meetings that it is difficult
to make suggestions applying to all. Some of these meetings are
attended so irregularly that it is not possible to read anything
continuous, whereas in others a sustained interest promotes
regularity. A little religious instruction or exhortation, a little domestic
or sanitary instruction, and a lively or pathetic narrative seem to
answer best, and I have endeavoured to collect the titles of books
useful in this respect. The two first, however, are best given
extempore if a clergyman will come for the first, and a lady who has
attended ambulance classes can be secured for the second.
The lad or young man species comes next. There are a few of
these with a thirst for information, and it is important to supply this in
a sound and wholesome form. Some like poetry, but the general run
can only be induced to read at all by adventurous or humorous tales.
Those who act as Sunday school teachers may, however, be led
to study books bearing on the subjects they have to teach, or to get
up for certificates, and thus may be brought to take an interest in
religious literature, which may deepen as they grow older.
 There is always, too, a certain proportion who have a strong turn
for fact, and like to have solid truth before them. Of course all these
can read the same books as the elder men, and even more difficult
ones, as their education has gone farther; but they need more that is
light, easy, and inviting, and a lending-library or reading-room
requires a supply fitted for both.
It is a pity there is not more good biography suited for this
purpose. The popularity of Miss Marsh’s ‘Hedley Vicars’ showed
what a book written without too much detail and with general interest
might be. Some of Smiles’s biographies come near the mark, also
some American ones, and those shilling books of Cassell’s called
‘The World’s Workers,’ also some published by Nelson and by
Blackie.
Good books of travels, too, are increasing favourites; also such
books as ‘Her Majesty’s Mail,’ and ‘Engine-Driving Life.’ In fact,
whatever wholesomely interests our own households may well be
sent into the club-room, provided it do not presuppose too much
culture. Many of these books may be bought second-hand at a
cheap rate from the Libraries. And there should be a good stock of
standard fiction: Scott, Dickens, Fenimore Cooper, are all to be had
at almost any price, and would pretty well supply in themselves the
requirements of reading-room fiction.
The corresponding class of girls and young women are for the
most part indiscriminate devourers of fiction, and, like the women
before mentioned, need to have their appetite rightly directed. But
there is more hope of them than of their elders, and their ideal is
capable of being raised by high-minded tales, which may refine their
notions. The semi-religious novel or novelette is to them moralising
put into action, and the most likely way of reaching them.
We must not be too hasty to condemn their frivolous tastes.
Whether in business or in service, they are tired, the book is
recreation, and they cannot be expected to want to improve
themselves when their brains and bodies are alike weary. Still we
can supply them with books that will not give them false views of life,
and that will foster enthusiasm for courage and truth, make vulgarity
disgusting, and show religion as the only true spring of life. Through
classes for Sunday teachers, and Communicants’ or Bible classes,
some spirit of religious study may be infused.
As to secular self-improvement, the students will always be few
and far between, and the experience of most libraries is that there is
little or no demand for improving books. So much is taught that there
is little inclination to learn. A reaction sometimes comes to men, but
seldom to women, whose home industries and occupations
necessarily absorb them so that their reading must be either
devotional or recreative.
Thus there is very little call for improving books in the lending
library, in proportion to those meant for recreation; but I would urge
that they should be used for prizes. At present, the usual habit is to
choose gay outsides and pretty pictures, with little heed to the
contents, but it should be remembered that the lent book is
ephemeral, read in a week and passed on, while the prize remains,
is exhibited to relatives and friends, is read over and over, becomes
a resource in illness, and forms part of the possessions to be handed
on to the next generation. Therefore, after the infant period, the
reward book should generally be of some worthiness, either
religious, improving, or at least standard fiction. Weakness and
poverty of thought should be avoided, especially as these books may
fall into the hands of clever, ungodly men, and serve to excite their
mockery. It should be remembered that the child to whom the book is
given will not always remain a child, and therefore that it is better to
let the new and cherished possession go beyond its present level of
taste or capacity.
The elder lad, whose schooldays are over, sometimes begins to
waken to intelligence, and to be ready to seek information, in some
cases being glad of really deep reading on scientific, political, or
theological subjects, and it is all-important to preoccupy his mind
with sound views before he meets with specious trash. Many indeed
both of lads and men are absorbed in actual practical life and never
read at all, or nothing but newspapers. Yet even these when laid low
by illness will accept a book to pass away the weary hours.
 Nothing, of course, can equal the effect of personal influence, from
schoolmaster, clergyman, or lady, but each of these may find books,
lent, recommended, or read aloud, of great assistance.
Some books of advice deprecate reading aloud in Sunday
schools. My own experience, now of many years, is that it is of great
assistance in impressing the scholars, and gives great pleasure. I
have been told of my old pupils mentioning it as one of the
enjoyments of their younger days; and when a part of a story has
been missed by absence, the connection is eagerly supplied by the
listeners who have been present. Moreover, those books in the
lending library are always most sought after which have been read
aloud, and sometimes elucidated, either at the Sunday school or at
the mothers’ meeting.
But books for this purpose must be carefully selected, with a view
to the capacities and tastes of the listeners, and be read really well
and dramatically, watching the eyes of the hearers—a rapid or
monotonous utterance is almost useless, and inattention leads to
bad habits.
There is no reason against giving tales about persons in different
stations of life from that of those who receive them, and in fact they
are often preferred; but it is as well to avoid those that deal with
temptations or enjoyments out of reach of the school-child; or which
dwell on beauty, finery, dainties, or any variety of pomps or vanities
as delights of wealth or rank. The enjoyment that authors have in
describing a lovely, beautifully-dressed child in a charming attitude
should be sacrificed in writing for children of any rank, unless they
are to learn vanity and affectation, or else be set to covet such
pleasures.
It is curious to find how many stories have become obsolete. Not
only have the tales where vanity is displayed by wearing white
stockings and

A bonnet cocked up to display to the view

Long ringlets of curls and a great bow of blue,
become archaic; but the stories of the good children who are
household supports and little nurses, picking up chance crumbs of
instruction, have lost all present reality such as the younger and less
clever children require.
Elder ones, if they have any imagination, prefer what does not run
in the grooves of their daily life, and some are much more willing to
listen to, or to read, what is not too obviously written for them. A
book labelled ‘A tale for—’ is apt to carry a note of warning to the
perverse spirits of those to whom it is addressed.
Historical tales and those of other lands require a certain degree of
cultivation and imagination, to be appreciated. To some, even the
best are distasteful, to others they supply the element of romance.
Those that have a charm about them of character and adventure,
fitting them for almost all readers, have been put into the groups
intended for the age they suit, as well as into their places as
illustrations of history.
I endeavour to give here a classified list that may be an assistance
in the choice of books. It is not an advertisement. Most of the books I
have personally proved. No doubt many readers will be disappointed
at omissions, but it is quite impossible to answer for all the books in
existence, and my object here is to suggest the fittest for the
purposes of lending, reading aloud, or giving. It is no condemnation
of a work that its name does not appear in this list—only it has either
not become known to me, or has not appeared to me so eminently
desirable as the others.
The lists of books in the present work have been drawn up in
different gradations, a great number of them having been actually
proved by reading aloud. There are many very fairly suitable for
lending, not equally good for reading aloud, as lengthiness,
description, and over-moralising, hang on hand with a mixed class;
and, in other cases, the reader seems to be inculcating with authority
all that is uttered, and thus gives a sense of preaching instead of
amusing.
The tales that have any dissenting bias, or which appear to involve
false doctrine, are of course omitted, though all those here
mentioned do not belong to the same school of thought within the
Church.
The classified list then includes books for:—
Little Ones.—Fit to be read or given to children from four to eight.
Junior Classes.—Children from seven or eight to ten or eleven.
Senior Classes.—From ten upwards.
Boys.—The books may be read by girls also, but most boys will
not read girls’ books, therefore their literature is put separately.
Drawing Room Stories.—The best are mentioned here, but all,
though excellent, are, on experience, out of the ken of the school
child.
On the Catechism.
On Confirmation.
On the Prayer Book.
On the Bible.
Allegories.
Stories on Church History.
” English History.
” General History.
Mythological Tales.
Novelettes.
Fairy Tales.
Mothers’ Meetings.
Mission Working Parties.
Descriptions of Countries.
Adventures.
Biography.