Parnassus on Wheels Read Online Free Page B

Walla Walla, Washington, has
ever thought of. It's a new field, but by the bones of Whitman it's
worth while. That's what this country needs—more books!"
    He laughed at his own vehemence. "Do you know, it's comical," he
said. "Even the publishers, the fellows that print the books,
can't see what I'm doing for them. Some of 'em refuse me credit
because I sell their books for what they're worth instead of
for the prices they mark on them. They write me letters about
price-maintenance—and I write back about merit-maintenance.
Publish a good book and I'll get a good price for it, Say I!
Sometimes I think the publishers know less about books than any
one else! I guess that's natural, though. Most school teachers
don't know much about children."
    "The best of it is," he went on, "I have such a darn good time.
Peg and Bock (that's the dog) and I go loafing along the road on
a warm summer day, and by and by we'll fetch up alongside some
boarding-house and there are the boarders all rocking off their
lunch on the veranda. Most of 'em bored to death—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 I'll sell half a dozen books that put the love of life into
them, and they don't forget Parnassus in a hurry. Take O. Henry, for
instance—there isn't anybody so dog-gone sleepy that he won't enjoy
that man's stories. He understood life, you bet, and he could write
it down with all its little twists. I'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."
    "What do you do in winter?" I asked—a practical question, as most
of mine are.
    "That depends on where I am when bad weather sets in," said Mr.
Mifflin. "Two winters I was down south and managed to keep Parnassus
going all through the season. Otherwise, I just lay up wherever I
am. I'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. I've had a fairly miscellaneous
experience. As far as I can see, a man who's fond of books never
need starve! But this winter I'm planing to live with my brother in
Brooklyn and slog away at my book. Lord, how I've pondered over that
thing! Long summer afternoons I'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 people—in the country, that
is—never have had any chance to get hold of books, and never have
had any one to explain what books can mean. It'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 stuff—something that'll stick to their ribs—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 that'll spur 'em on to keep the hearth well swept and the
wood pile split into kindling and the dishes washed and dried and
put away. Any one who can get the country people to read something
worth while is doing his nation a real service. And that's what
this caravan of culture aspires to.... You must be weary of this
harangue! Does the Sage of Redfield ever run on like that?"
    "Not to me," I said. "He's known me so long that he thinks of me as
a kind of animated bread-baking and cake-mixing machine. I guess he
doesn't put much stock in my judgment in literary matters. But he
puts his digestion in my hands without reserve. There's Mason's
farm over there. I guess we'd better sell them some books—hadn't
we? Just for a