When I was 13, I got a job shelving books at the public library in Duluth, Minn., the most stultifying job ever held by anybody on the face of the planet. (Or so I thought.) At first I worked just a few hours after school, but later the librarians scheduled me to work on Saturdays, too. I resented giving up my weekend, so I decided to quit. As I was giving notice, I mentioned casually that it would have been fun to work in the children's room. The head librarian said, "OK," and instead of handing me my final check she reassigned me to the joyous, noisy first floor, the room of tiny, colorfully painted chairs and Saturday afternoon puppet shows.