Twenty-nine years ago, my father's half-brother gave me Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's 'The Complete Sherlock Holmes' (Doubleday) as a Christmas present, for the perfectly logical reason that I'd told him in no uncertain terms that nothing would please me more. The music critic of Commentary, writes the 'Front Row Center' column for Civilization, the magazine of the Library of Congress. But we've managed to track down a few copies in used bookstores to share with my two young sons. The book is out of print and mostly forgotten now. He remembered it for the remarkable way it made the history of Western civilization come alive in a child's imagination, without condescension or a trace of stuffiness. I received the book from my father, who had himself been entranced by it when he was a boy. Hillyer, the headmaster of a patrician boys' school.

The best book ever given to me as a gift was 'A Child's History of the World,' written in 1924 by V.M. Writes for the Wall Street Journal, the Times Literary Supplement, the Washington Post, the New York Times and the New Criterion, for which she used to be assistant managing editor. It provided with the persistent fantasy of my life. I was 5 years old and the book was 'Anne of Green Gables.' The story of a little girl who was unhappy and unappreciated, and then appreciated and cherished.

My parents had never thought of buying me a book.

It came from my cousin Seth, just released from the Navy after World War II.

The happy hollisters books in order