FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: READING!

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

Continued from Sept. 21 ...Learning to read and having more books available were two of the best things to come out of Loughboro school days.

I had a head start, not in the sense of government sponsored Head Start programs at the last of the century, but we had a funny collection of books at home from which Mama read aloud to anyone who wanted to listen.

In the San Francisco and Chicago disaster books (how did we come by them?) there were many pictures of those who had lost their lives. Their names and ages were given. Lou and I seemed morbidly interested and could, eventually, recite the names of everyone pictured without benefit of looking at the caption. We affectionately shortened their names. A little blond Rebecca became Becky to us. A distinguished looking Peter became Pete.

As we girls grew, a few more books began to be added, mostly gifts. They were the "Five Little Peppers" series, "The Girl of the Limberlost," "Georgina of the Rainbow" and "Laddie."We subscribed to the magazine, "Comfort.' Maybe it was this magazine that contained Thornton Burgess' little animal stories. I could hardly wait for the next issue to come so that Mama could read another such story about Old Granny Fox, Jerry Muskrat, or Sammy Jay. In addition, there were adult continuing stories. Mama read these aloud too, primarily for Grandmas benefit whose eyesight was failing. I listened to these stories as avidly as I did to those about Bowser the Hound or Reddy Fox.

There was one I shall never forget, "The Unseeing Eye." It was my first exposure to mystery stories. Such listened-to reading acquainted me, by some peculiar literary osmosis, with plot, characterization and climax, all unintentional and all with profound unawareness on anyone's part.

When Mama began to read "Evangeline" to us, after supper and all chores and homework were done, the words fell from her lips, again unintentionally, like some beautiful but somber notes of music. "This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, bearded with moss . . . indistinct in the twilight . . .voices sad and prophetic . . . the deep-voiced neighboring ocean . . .answers the wail of the forest .. ."It seemed that the lamps in this enchanting winter kitchen suddenly burned lower, the fireplace light dimmed and the teakettle on the back of the kitchen range sighed. Something bittersweet was going to come about in the poem that lasted for several evenings of reading.

Mama would pause often to see if there were any questions. There were but we seldom interrupted. Once I ventured, "Let me see that word, murmuring." Mama showed it to me. It even looked like it sounded. We pronounced it slowly together which precluded any explanation of what it meant. It made me think of the river where it "murmured" over the rocks between the Big and Little bluffs on our way to school.

Primeval, Druids, disconsolate, prophetic, could go by the way to be attended to later. I had picked out my glimmering, emerald jewel, murmuring. It was sweet and sad, yet comforting. No doubt I went about for days, murmuring.

As Mama continued I also, without any scholastic lesson, imbibed cadence and rhythm, adding them, unconsciously, to my sense of mood, plot, characterization and climax. In later life when these concepts were presented to me scholastically, how was it I already seemed to know about them.

If this account of Mama's reading sounds just too literary, let me say that when she opened the beautifully bound, "Lord Byron's Poems" and read from the very first page a poem entitled, "To E____," all of us were as puzzled as one of Grandpa's hounds who had lost the trail.

When Mama caught Lou and me thumbing through that gloomy, darkly illustrated book, "Night Scenes from the Bible," and identifying pictures as, "That's Nick with Jesus," "Here's Pete, Jim and Johnny asleep in the Garden," she, flashy-eyed and tight-lipped took it from our hands and put us to bed without even a teaspoonful of chamomile tea. We were glad she didn't turn the fascinating key in that fascinating keyhole and put it out of our reach.

The following Christmas a new book was put into our hands. It was highly illustrated and the title was "Bible Stories for Children."Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau