This article was written for the Crimson by a former pupil of Copey's now a contributor to the New Yorker.

Books from Professor Copeland's library will go on sale at the Harvard Cooperative Society today. The bare announcement ought to be enough. I don't know why Professor Copeland's books--some of them--are to be sold. He didn't tell me, and I didn't ask. I suspect he hasn't room for them all. I don't know how he made his choice, either, or the title of any single one of them. It does not matter. (Many, certainly, are duplicates.)

He bought them, read them, and, presumably, liked them, or they'd have been long since given away. His name is signed on the fly-leaf of each. For a time, long or short, they stood on his shelves and formed a part of that familiar background against which those who know him always think of him.

They are the product of Professor Copeland's great knowledge of books, of his catholic and living taste. Be sure that they have value, that they are worth reading and owning. They are discards, yes, so are chips from a cut diamond.

Therefore, if you are wise, and if you like books for themselves or for what is in them, proceed directly to this noble bone-yard, and--if you are not already too late,--buy.