Books are not altogether impersonal things. Somebody wrote them. Somebody's lifeblood is in them. Somebody lived, suffered, wept, struggled, and toiled to put into the book that which pleases and helps us. Should we not think of this as we read the sentences which delight us or which inspire and quicken us? Do we often, indeed, give thought to the writer whose written words bring to us their messages? Do we not forget ofttimes that it is somebody’s heart-blood which runs in the sentences we are reading, somebody’s very life, if the words are truly helpful? Do we then owe nothing to the author? Be sure the lessons he is teaching have cost him pain and tears. He had to live deeply to write helpfully. Some recognition of the help we have gotten from him we certainly owe to him. Should we not write to him our thanks for the gift he has put into our life?