I recently received a bunch of letters from a group of fifth graders whose teacher read them Captain Grey. This book, my first historical novel, was published in 1977. That’s to say it was written some thirty-seven years ago. I have strong memories of how and where I wrote Captain Grey, but in truth, I have few recollections of the book’s details, other than the general plot. The kids’ letters name characters, and recall incidents, which I’ve long forgotten. What a pleasure to know they enjoyed the book so much. In that sense, I think the book belongs far more to them, now, than to me. Still, it’s lovely to be reminded that old books are always new books to new readers. In this sense the books I once wrote have a kind of eternal youth, which, I can assure you I have not. Can you hear my sigh? I am envious of my old books!