And then there was a piece of paper in my hand, standing at the top of the hill

I have inherited some early twentieth-century editions of mid-nineteenth-century novels. The Erckmann-Chatrian come from a six-volume set published by Charles Scribner's Sons in 1901; I have translations of Madame Thérèse (1863), The Conscript (Histoire d'un conscrit de 1813, 1864), Waterloo (1865), and The Blockade of Phalsbourg (Le Blocus, 1866). The Frederick Marryat I have less information about, except that they are much cheaper editions from the Federal Book Company and comprise Newton Forster (1832), Olla Podrida (1840), and Percival Keene (1842). All belonged to my father's grandfather, who signed his name and address on their flyleaves in 1901 and 1904. I imagine they will end up on the same shelf as the Yiddish editions of Sholem Aleichem that I inherited from my grandmother and the contraband Ulysses that belonged to her father.

I had plans for the day that included trying to write a poem out of one of last night's dreams, but I did a lot of walking and a lot of further grocery shopping and seem to be somewhat wiped out. I unpacked our Paleozoic plushies and placed them appropriately, however. I've seen weirder-looking medieval whales.