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there he wanted some Shakespeare, but I wouldnā€™t give it to him. I didnā€™t think he was up to it yet.ā€

I began to see something of the little manā€™s idealism in his work. He was a kind of traveling missionary in his way. A hefty talker, too. His eyes were twinkling now and I could see him warming up.

ā€œLord!ā€ he said, ā€œwhen you sell a man a book you donā€™t sell him just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glueā ā€”you sell him a whole new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by nightā ā€”thereā€™s all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean. Jiminy! If I were the baker or the butcher or the broom huckster, people would run to the gate when I came byā ā€”just waiting for my stuff. And here I go loaded with everlasting salvationā ā€”yes, maā€™am, salvation for their little, stunted mindsā ā€”and itā€™s hard to make ā€™em see it. Thatā€™s what makes it worth whileā ā€”Iā€™m doing something that nobody else from Nazareth, Maine, to Walla Walla, Washington, has ever thought of. Itā€™s a new field, but by the bones of Whitman itā€™s worthwhile. Thatā€™s what this country needsā ā€”more books!ā€

He laughed at his own vehemence. ā€œDo you know, itā€™s comical,ā€ he said. ā€œEven the publishers, the fellows that print the books, canā€™t see what Iā€™m doing for them. Some of ā€™em refuse me credit because I sell their books for what theyā€™re worth instead of for the prices they mark on them. They write me letters about price-maintenanceā ā€”and I write back about merit-maintenance. Publish a good book and Iā€™ll get a good price for it, say I! Sometimes I think the publishers know less about books than anyone else! I guess thatā€™s natural, though. Most school teachers donā€™t know much about children.ā€

ā€œThe best of it is,ā€ he went on, ā€œI have such a darn good time. Peg and Bock (thatā€™s the dog) and I go loafing along the road on a warm summer day, and by and by weā€™ll fetch up alongside some boardinghouse and there are the boarders all rocking off their lunch on the veranda. Most of ā€™em bored to deathā ā€”nothing good to read, nothing to do but sit and watch the flies buzzing in the sun and the chickens rubbing up and down in the dust. First thing you know Iā€™ll sell half a dozen books that put the love of life into them, and they donā€™t forget Parnassus in a hurry. Take O. Henry, for instanceā ā€”there isnā€™t anybody so doggone sleepy that he wonā€™t enjoy that manā€™s stories. He understood life, you bet, and he could write it down with all its little twists. Iā€™ve spent an evening reading O. Henry and Wilkie Collins to people and had them buy out all their books I had and clamour for more.ā€

ā€œWhat do you do in winter?ā€ I askedā ā€”a practical question, as most of mine are.

ā€œThat depends on where I am when bad weather sets in,ā€ said Mr. Mifflin. ā€œTwo winters I was down south and managed to keep Parnassus going all through the season. Otherwise, I just lay up wherever I am. Iā€™ve never found it hard to get lodging for Peg and a job for myself, if I had to have them. Last winter I worked in a bookstore in Boston. Winter before, I was in a country drugstore down in Pennsylvania. Winter before that, I tutored a couple of small boys in English literature. Winter before that, I was a steward on a steamer; you see how it goes. Iā€™ve had a fairly miscellaneous experience. As far as I can see, a man whoā€™s fond of books never need starve! But this winter Iā€™m planning to live with my brother in Brooklyn and slog away at my book. Lord, how Iā€™ve pondered over that thing! Long summer afternoons Iā€™ve sat here, jogging along in the dust, thinking it out until it seemed as if my forehead would burst. You see, my idea is that the common peopleā ā€”in the country, that isā ā€”never have had any chance to get hold of books, and never have had anyone to explain what books can mean. Itā€™s all right for college presidents to draw up their five-foot shelves of great literature, and for the publishers to advertise sets of their Linoleum Classics, but what the people need is the good, homely, honest stuffā ā€”something thatā€™ll stick to their ribsā ā€”make them laugh and tremble and feel sick to think of the littleness of this popcorn ball spinning in space without ever even getting a hot box! And something thatā€™ll spur ā€™em on to keep the hearth well swept and the wood pile split into kindling and the dishes washed and dried and put away. Anyone who can get the country people to read something worth while is doing his nation a real service. And thatā€™s what this caravan of culture aspires toā ā€Šā ā€¦ You must be weary of this harangue! Does the Sage of Redfield ever run on like that?ā€

ā€œNot to me,ā€ I said. ā€œHeā€™s known me so long that he thinks of me as a kind of animated bread-baking and cake-mixing machine. I guess he doesnā€™t put much stock in my judgment in literary matters. But he puts his digestion in my hands without reserve. Thereā€™s Masonā€™s farm over there. I guess weā€™d better sell them some booksā ā€”hadnā€™t we? Just for a starter.ā€

We turned into the lane that runs up to the Mason farmhouse. Bock trotted on aheadā ā€”very stiff on his legs and his tail gently waggingā ā€”to interview the mastiff, and Mrs. Mason who was sitting on the porch, peeling potatoes, laid down the pan. Sheā€™s a big, buxom woman with jolly, brown eyes like a cowā€™s.

ā€œFor heavenā€™s sake, Miss McGill,ā€ she called out in a cheerful voiceā ā€”ā€œIā€™m glad to see you. Got a lift, did you?ā€

She hadnā€™t really noticed the inscription on Parnassus, and thought it was a regular hucksterā€™s wagon.

ā€œWell, Mrs. Mason,ā€ I said, ā€œIā€™ve gone into the book business. This is

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