'[the father of Harry Burton] 'an irregularly employed housepainter, liked a "stirring novel" but nothing more challenging than Conan Doyle: "He had no use whatever for anything remotely approaching the spiritual in art, literature or music...", and yet the whole family rea and, on some level, took pleasure in sharing and discussing their reading. His mother recited serials from the Family Reader and analyzed them at length with grandma over a cup of tea. Every few minutes his father would offer up a snippet from the Daily Chronicle or Lloyd's Weekly News. The children were not discouraged from reading aloud, perhaps from Jules Verne: "I can smell to this day the Journey to the Centre of the Earth", Burton recalled. The whole family made use of the public library and enjoyed together children's magazines like Chips and The Butterfly'.