Pandora settled into her cat bed in the window and I started sorting and putting away the books that had accumulated, which included a boxful from an internet auction I’d won and a pile of old books I’d picked up in my travels. Inside the box was a wonderful set of five poetry books bound in rich brown leather with gold leaf on the edges of the pages. I carefully carried them to the poetry section and made room for them on the shelf at eye level. “I shall tell you with a sigh, the poetry section needs some bulking up.” I gasped, momentarily startled at the voice in my ear, then turned to see the ghostly figure of Robert Frost at my side. The poet’s ghost often hung around here in the poetry section where I had quite a collection of his books—he’d lived in New Hampshire while writing many of his poems, and his books were quite popular here. I scanned the shelf critically. “You know what, Robert? You’re right. These shelves are practically bare.” “Oh, and you could use some more historical books, too,”
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