Two bookworms were having a conversation.
“I tried cork-biting once,” said the first.

“And yet people call you a bookworm,” said the second. “Some people, anyway — the ones who don’t know much about it.”
“I don’t mind the name,” said the first. “I love books. I simply don’t care for reading. Which might sound strange, I know — but the bookworm families understand completely. Being a bookworm has nothing to do with words.
“Once, I worked my way through a whole shelf — every book in order, in exactly the same spot — so that if anyone had liked, they could have threaded a ribbon right through the whole row and hung them from the ceiling instead of standing them on the shelf. I thought they might enjoy the change. That seems to me to deserve the name.”
