There is the sales receipt for $70.69 from Rev. Zombie's House of Voodoo in New Orleans.

There is this list, found in the ''Ladies' Home Journal Treasury," a collection of ''73 years of its best stories, articles and poetry" first published in 1956:

Put laundry away Make beds Wash Something for dinner Valentines -- get stuff together Sue & Tom -- Bridge 8:00 Write note to Cub Scouts There is the sonogram image of a fetus in the womb.

And a four-leaf clover.

Those are among an estimated 5,000 notes and objects left behind in the books Sara Theriault sells at Lorem Ipsum, a used bookstore in Cambridge. Each has a story to tell, she figures.

''In a culture where everything is so disposable, it's interesting to 'read' trash," says Theriault, who lives in Somerville.

Theriault, 29, started collecting items pulled from books 2 1/2 years ago as she and co-owner Matt Mankins readied used books for sale in their Inman Square shop.

''To me it was some kind of anthropological study of human nature," she says.

One night she started gluing found items to the bathroom wall at the Hampshire Street shop. ''It's a nice relaxing thing to do when you just need a break from doing real work," she says. Now dozens are plastered there -- and the sign on the door says, ''The Museum."

Among the items is a letter to a Peter -- possibly fortunate, more likely just joshed -- that opens: ''I am returning your book along with this check for $27,000 as a small token of my appreciation."

Across town, Hilary Brant, the used-book buyer for the Harvard Book Store, isn't so lucky. ''We haven't lost interest" in displaying items found in books, she says, ''but we've run out of wall space." Brant especially likes items evocative of a particular era, like photos of men from the '60s wearing long hair and polyester. Taking home what she finds in books is a perk of her job. ''It's the poor man's antique collection," she says.

Generally, of course, the scraps of paper found inside a book, shoved there as bookmarks or for no apparent reason, are less than memorable. Sometimes, however, a book is used as a safe place or hiding place for something important, like a letter.

''A lot of times the letters are heartbreaking. People are upset. Or it's heartbreaking because the letter's sweet and the person doesn't have it anymore," Theriault says.

One of her favorites is a typed two-page letter dated March 3, 1992, to ''Johnny" on his 21st birthday. Mom writes that Dad got his orders for Vietnam almost as soon as she became pregnant. He came home at the end of February, for the baby's due date, but had to return to Vietnam before the baby arrived. ''He was terribly disappointed!" she wrote.

''At about 3:45 a.m. on March 3rd, they wheeled me into the delivery room and you were born at 4:05! It sure didn't take long and what they say about not remembering the pain is partially true because all I can remember was feeling the most incredible joy and happiness. Immediately after you were born Dr. Seitz said, 'Well, I'm off to contact the Red Cross.' At that time the Red Cross contacted your dad's commander so that he could be told. . . . I just kept talking to anyone that would listen to me about how wonderful you were. Well, dear, after 21 years my opinion hasn't changed . . . you're still one of the best things that ever happened to me. Happy Birthday! Love Mom."

''I'm just sorry Johnny doesn't have this letter anymore," says Theriault with a sigh. Maybe he has children of his own by now, she muses. Maybe he has a deeper appreciation for his mother's travails -- and wishes he had saved the letter rather than sticking it in a psychology textbook.

The letters about troubled relationships leave Theriault hanging. ''Did things get better?" she wonders.

An unsigned four-page letter dated 9/26/94 boils over with frustration:

''I cleaned the bathroom top to bottom 2 weeks ago. Who says thank you? Nobody. I made the kitchen spotless one week ago. Yet people still don't pick up after themselves . . . Someone spilled lemonade on the counter under the microwave. It is still sticky -- I wonder why we don't have bugs yet . . . Is it so surprising that I want to move out to keep my sanity."

Theriault especially enjoys notes, such as this one, left in self-help books:

''I have something she wants. She wants something from me. I throw up barriers."

Very often, Theriault says, less is more. Take, for example, the confidential memo received Oct. 2, 1984, in the president's office at WMHT, an entity otherwise unidentified. (A PBS TV affiliate in upstate New York bears those call letters, but who knows?) In it, ''Ellis" reminds ''Dave" that performance evaluations for ''Peg" and ''Mike" are three months overdue. ''Remember, the written portion is supposed to be sent to Don first for his review before the oral portion is done," it states.

That note, though, is positively expansive compared to another of Theriault's finds, a typewritten message on a yellowed piece of paper, which reads in full:

''The only real death is the death we die every day by not living."

Theriault inspects a pink telephone message covered with doodles and computations. ''Out of nowhere it says, 'I don't respect him,' " she points out. ''On some level, these are not just trivial pieces of paper."

Only once has Theriault reunited a piece of the past with its owner. Theriault idly flipped through one of the books a couple brought in. Inside was a card -- from five years ago -- and a hundred dollar bill. She ran after the couple.

Pressing the money into the woman's hand, she told her, ''You need to call your grandma."

Jan Gardner can be reached at jgardner@globe.com.

Lost and found, literally

Among the items retrieved from books at the Lorem Ipsum shop in Cambridge: