Chapter 6

I had a curious feeling of bewilderment when I woke the next
morning. The bare room with the red-and-blue rag carpet and green
china toilet set was utterly strange. In the hall outside I heard a
clock strike. "Heavens!" I thought, "I've overslept myself nearly
two hours. What on earth will Andrew do for breakfast?" And then
as I ran to close the window I saw the blue Parnassus with its
startling red letters standing in the yard. Instantly I remembered.
And discreetly peeping from behind the window shade I saw that the
Professor, armed with a tin of paint, was blotting out his own name
on the side of the van, evidently intending to substitute mine. That
was something I had not thought of. However, I might as well make
the best of it.

I dressed promptly, repacked my bag, and hurried downstairs for
breakfast. The long table was nearly empty, but one or two men
sitting at the other end eyed me curiously. Through the window I
could see my name in large, red letters, growing on the side of the
van, as the Professor diligently wielded his brush. And when I had
finished my coffee and beans and bacon I noticed with some amusement
that the Professor had painted out the line about Shakespeare,
Charles Lamb, and so on, and had substituted new lettering. The
sign now read:


Evidently he distrusted my familiarity with the classics.

I paid my bill at the desk, and was careful also to pay the charge
for putting up the horse and van overnight. Then I strolled into the
stable yard, where I found Mr. Mifflin regarding his handiwork with
satisfaction. He had freshened up all the red lettering, which shone
brilliantly in the morning sunlight.

"Good-morning," I said.

He returned it.

"There!" he cried--"Parnassus is really yours! All the world lies
before you! And I've got some more money for you. I sold some books
last night. I persuaded the hotel keeper to buy several volumes of
O. Henry for his smoking-room shelf, and I sold the 'Waldorf Cook
Book' to the cook. My! wasn't her coffee awful? I hope the cook book
will better it."

He handed me two limp bills and a handful of small change. I took it
gravely and put it in my purse. This was really not bad--more than
ten dollars in less than twenty-four hours.

"Parnassus seems to be a gold mine," I said.

"Which way do you think you'll go?" he asked.

"Well, as I know you want to get to Port Vigor I might just as well
give you a lift that way," I answered.

"Good! I was hoping you'd say that. They tell me the stage for Port
Vigor doesn't leave till noon, and I think it would kill me to hang
around here all morning with no books to sell. Once I get on the
train I'll be all right."

Bock was tied up in a corner of the yard, under the side door of the
hotel. I went over to release him while the Professor was putting
Peg into harness. As I stooped to unfasten the chain from his collar
I heard some one talking through the telephone. The hotel lobby was
just over my head, and the window was open.

"What did you say?"

"---- ---- ---- ----"

"McGill? Yes, sir, registered here last night. She's here now."

I didn't wait to hear more. Unfastening Bock, I hurried to tell
Mifflin. His eyes sparkled.

"The Sage is evidently on our spoor," he chuckled. "Well, let's be
off. I don't see what he can do even if he overhauls us."

The clerk was calling me from the window: "Miss McGill, your
brother's on the wire and asks to speak to you."

"Tell him I'm busy," I retorted, and climbed onto the seat. It was
not a diplomatic reply, I'm afraid, but I was too exhilarated by
the keen morning and the spirit of adventure to stop to think of a
better answer. Mifflin clucked to Peg, and off we went.

The road from Shelby to Port Vigor runs across the broad hill slopes
that trend toward the Sound; and below, on our left, the river lay
glittering in the valley. It was a perfect landscape: the woods
were all bronze and gold; the clouds were snowy white and seemed
like heavenly washing hung out to air; the sun was warm and swam
gloriously in an arch of superb blue. My heart was uplifted indeed.
For the first time, I think, I knew how Andrew feels on those
vagabond trips of his. Why had all this been hidden from me before?
Why had the transcendent mystery of baking bread blinded me so long
to the mysteries of sun and sky and wind in the trees? We passed a
white farmhouse close to the road. By the gate sat the farmer on a
log, whittling a stick and smoking his pipe. Through the kitchen
window I could see a woman blacking the stove. I wanted to cry out:
"Oh, silly woman! Leave your stove, your pots and pans and chores,
even if only for one day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and
the river in the distance!" The farmer looked blankly at Parnassus
as we passed, and then I remembered my mission as a distributor
of literature. Mifflin was sitting with one foot on his bulging
portmanteau, watching the tree tops rocking in the cool wind. He
seemed to be far away in a morning muse. I threw down the reins and
accosted the farmer.

"Good-morning, friend."

"Morning to you, ma'am," he said firmly.

"I'm selling books," I said. "I wonder if there isn't something you

"Thanks, lady," he said, "but I bought a mort o' books last year an'
I don't believe I'll ever read 'em this side Jordan. A whole set o'
'Funereal Orations' what an agent left on me at a dollar a month. I
could qualify as earnest mourner at any death-bed merrymakin' now, I

"You need some books to teach you how to live, not how to die," I
said. "How about your wife--wouldn't she enjoy a good book? How
about some fairy tales for the children?"

"Bless me," he said, "I ain't got a wife. I never was a daring man,
and I guess I'll confine my melancholy pleasures to them funereal
orators for some time yet."

"Well, now, hold on a minute!" I exclaimed. "I've got just the thing
for you." I had been looking over the shelves with some care, and
remembered seeing a copy of "Reveries of a Bachelor." I clambered
down, raised the flap of the van (it gave me quite a thrill to do it
myself for the first time), and hunted out the book. I looked inside
the cover and saw the letters _n m_ in Mifflin's neat hand.

"Here you are," I said. "I'll sell you that for thirty cents."

"Thank you kindly, ma'am," he said courteously. "But honestly I
wouldn't know what to do with it. I am working through a government
report on scabworm and fungus, and I sandwich in a little of them
funereal speeches with it, and honestly that's about all the readin'
I figure on. That an' the Port Vigor Clarion."

I saw that he really meant it, so I climbed back on the seat. I
would have liked to talk to the woman in the kitchen who was peering
out of the window in amazement, but I decided it would be better to
jog on and not waste time. The farmer and I exchanged friendly
salutes, and Parnassus rumbled on.

The morning was so lovely that I did not feel talkative, and as the
Professor seemed pensive I said nothing. But as Peg plodded slowly
up a gentle slope he suddenly pulled a book out of his pocket and
began to read aloud. I was watching the river, and did not turn
round, but listened carefully:

"Rolling cloud, volleying wind, and wheeling sun--the blue
tabernacle of sky, the circle of the seasons, the sparkling
multitude of the stars--all these are surely part of one rhythmic,
mystic whole. Everywhere, as we go about our small business, we
must discern the fingerprints of the gigantic plan, the orderly and
inexorable routine with neither beginning nor end, in which death
is but a preface to another birth, and birth the certain forerunner
of another death. We human beings are as powerless to conceive the
motive or the moral of it all as the dog is powerless to understand
the reasoning in his master's mind. He sees the master's acts,
benevolent or malevolent, and wags his tail. But the master's acts
are always inscrutable to him. And so with us.

"And therefore, brethren, let us take the road with a light heart.
Let us praise the bronze of the leaves and the crash of the surf
while we have eyes to see and ears to hear. An honest amazement at
the unspeakable beauties of the world is a comely posture for the
scholar. Let us all be scholars under Mother Nature's eye.

"How do you like that?" he asked.

"A little heavy, but very good," I said. "There's nothing in it
about the transcendent mystery of baking bread!"

He looked rather blank.

"Do you know who wrote it?" he asked.

I made a valiant effort to summon some of my governessly
recollections of literature.

"I give it up," I said feebly. "Is it Carlyle?"

"That is by Andrew McGill," he said. "One of his cosmic passages
which are now beginning to be reprinted in schoolbooks. The blighter
writes well."

I began to be uneasy lest I should be put through a literary
catechism, so I said nothing, but roused Peg into an amble. To tell
the truth I was more curious to hear the Professor talk about his
own book than about Andrew's. I had always carefully refrained from
reading Andrew's stuff, as I thought it rather dull.

"As for me," said the Professor, "I have no facility at the grand
style. I have always suffered from the feeling that it's better to
read a good book than to write a poor one; and I've done so much
mixed reading in my time that my mind is full of echoes and voices
of better men. But this book I'm worrying about now really deserves
to be written, I think, for it has a message of its own."

He gazed almost wistfully across the sunny valley. In the distance
I caught a glint of the Sound. The Professor's faded tweed cap was
slanted over one ear, and his stubby little beard shone bright red
in the sun. I kept a sympathetic silence. He seemed pleased to have
some one to talk to about his precious book.

"The world is full of great writers about literature," he said,
"but they're all selfish and aristocratic. Addison, Lamb, Hazlitt,
Emerson, Lowell--take any one you choose--they all conceive the love
of books as a rare and perfect mystery for the few--a thing of the
secluded study where they can sit alone at night with a candle,
and a cigar, and a glass of port on the table and a spaniel on the
hearthrug. What I say is, who has ever gone out into high roads and
hedges to bring literature home to the plain man? To bring it home
to his business and bosom, as somebody says? The farther into the
country you go, the fewer and worse books you find. I've spent
several years joggling around with this citadel of crime, and by
the bones of Ben Ezra I don't think I ever found a really good book
(except the Bible) at a farmhouse yet, unless I put it there myself.
The mandarins of culture--what do they do to teach the common folk
to read? It's no good writing down lists of books for farmers and
compiling five-foot shelves; you've got to go out and visit the
people yourself--take the books to them, talk to the teachers and
bully the editors of country newspapers and farm magazines and tell
the children stories--and then little by little you begin to get
good books circulating in the veins of the nation. It's a great
work, mind you! It's like carrying the Holy Grail to some of these
way-back farmhouses. And I wish there were a thousand Parnassuses
instead of this one. I'd never give it up if it weren't for my book:
but I want to write about my ideas in the hope of stirring other
folk up, too. I don't suppose there's a publisher in the country
will take it!"

"Try Mr. Decameron," I said. "He's always been very nice to Andrew."

"Think what it would mean," he cried, waving an eloquent hand, "if
some rich man would start a fund to equip a hundred or so wagons
like this to go huckstering literature around through the rural
districts. It would pay, too, once you got started. Yes, by the
bones of Webster! I went to a meeting of booksellers once, at some
hotel in New York, and told 'em about my scheme. They laughed at me.
But I've had more fun toting books around in this Parnassus than I
could have had in fifty years sitting in a bookstore, or teaching
school, or preaching. Life's full of savour when you go creaking
along the road like this. Look at today, with the sun and the air
and the silver clouds. Best of all, though, I love the rainy days. I
used to pull up alongside the road, throw a rubber blanket over Peg,
and Bock and I would curl up in the bunk and smoke and read. I used
to read aloud to Bock: we went through 'Midshipman Easy' together,
and a good deal of Shakespeare. He's a very bookish dog. We've seen
some queer experiences in this Parnassus."

The hill road from Shelby to Port Vigor is a lonely one, as most
of the farmhouses lie down in the valley. If I had known better we
might have taken the longer and more populous way, but as a matter
of fact I was enjoying the wide view and the solitary road lying
white in the sunshine. We jogged along very pleasantly. Once more we
stopped at a house where Mifflin pleaded for a chance to exercise
his art. I was much amused when he succeeded in selling a copy of
"Grimm's Fairy Tales" to a shrewish spinster on the plea that she
would enjoy reading the stories to her nephews and nieces who were
coming to visit her.

"My!" he chuckled, as he gave me the dingy quarter he had extracted.
"There's nothing in that book as grim as she is!"

A little farther on we halted by a roadside spring to give Peg a
drink, and I suggested lunch. I had laid in some bread and cheese in
Shelby, and with this and some jam we made excellent sandwiches. As
we were sitting by the fence the motor stage trundled past on its
way to Port Vigor. A little distance down the road it halted, and
then went on again. I saw a familiar figure walking back toward us.

"Now I'm in for it," I said to the Professor. "Here's Andrew!"

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