“Suppose Pitchfork had a library with one hundred thousand books,” said Emily to her mother. “There goes your imagination again,” said her mother. It was Emily’s imagination that prompted her to give the hogs some bruised—and slightly fermented—apples to eat, which would have been fine if she hadn’t forgotten to close the gate to their pen. Pretty soon the hogs were staggering all over the yard. It was her imagination that gave her the idea to bleach Lady, their old gray plow horse, with Clorox so that she’d have a beautiful white stallion to ride into her kingdom. (Lady was less than pleased.) But without Emily’s imagination, Pitchfork would not have got what every town worth its salt really needs—a library.