Parnassus on Wheels Christopher Morley (no david read aloud txt) đ
- Author: Christopher Morley
Book online «Parnassus on Wheels Christopher Morley (no david read aloud txt) đ». Author Christopher Morley
âThatâs right, Pa,â assented Mrs. Mason. (âGo on with your meal, Professor, the meatâll be cold.â) She was completely won by the travelling bookseller, and had given him the highest title of honour in her ken. âWhy, I read that story when I was a girl, and I still remember it. Thatâs better readinâ for Dorothy than those funeral speeches, I reckon. I believe the Professorâs right: weâd ought to have more books laying around. Seems kind of a shame, with a famous author at the next farm, not to read more, donât it, now?â
So by the time we got down to Mrs. Masonâs squash pie (good pie, too, I admit, but her hand is a little heavy for pastry), the whole household was enthusiastic about books, and the atmosphere was literary enough for even Dr. Eliot to live in without panting. Mrs. Mason opened up her parlour and we sat there while Mifflin recited The Revenge and Maud Muller.
âWell, now, ainât that real sweet!â said Emma Mason. âItâs surprising how those words rhyme so nicely. Seems almost as though it was done a-purpose! Reminds me of piece day at school. There was a mighty pretty piece I learned called the Wreck of the Asperus.â And she subsided into a genteel melancholy.
I saw that Mr. Mifflin was well astride his hobby: he had started to tell the children about Robin Hood, but I had the sense to give him a wink. We had to be getting along or surely Andrew might be on us. So while Mifflin was putting Pegasus into the shafts again I picked out seven or eight books that I thought would fit the needs of the Masons. Mr. Mason insisted that Happiness and Hayseed be included among them, and gave me a crisp five-dollar bill, refusing any change. âNo, no,â he said, âIâve had more fun than I get at a grange meeting. Come round again, Miss McGill; Iâm going to tell Andrew what a good show this travelling theayter of yours gives! And you, Professor, any time youâre here about road-mending season, stop in anâ tell me some more good advice. Well, I must get back to the field.â
Bock fell in under the van, and we creaked off down the lane. Mifflin filled his pipe and was chuckling to himself. I was a little worried now for fear Andrew might overtake us.
âItâs a wonder Sam Mason didnât call up Andrew,â I said. âIt must have looked mighty queer to him for an old farm hand like me to be around, peddling books.â
âHe would have done it straight off,â said Mifflin, âbut you see, I cut his telephone wire!â
VI gazed in astonishment at the wizened little rogue. Here was a new side to the amiable idealist! Apparently there was a streak of fearless deviltry in him besides his gentle love of books. Iâm bound to say that now, for the first time, I really admired him. I had burnt my own very respectable boats behind me, and I rather enjoyed knowing that he, too, could act briskly in a pinch.
âWell!â I said. âYou are a cool hand! Itâs a good job for you that you didnât stay a schoolmaster. You might have taught your pupils some fine deviltries! And at your age, too!â
Iâm afraid my raillery goes a little too far sometimes. He flushed a bit at my reference to his age, and puffed sharply at his pipe.
âI say,â he rejoined, âhow old do you think I am, anyway? Only forty-one, by the bones of Byron! Henry VIII was only forty-one when he married Anne Boleyn. There are many consolations in history for people over forty! Remember that when you get there.â
âShakespeare wrote King Lear at forty-one,â he added, more humorously; and then burst out laughing. âIâd like to edit a series of âChloroform Classics,â to include only books written after forty. Who was that doctor man who recommended anaesthetics for us at that age? Now isnât that just like a medico? Nurse us through the diseases of childhood, and as soon as we settle down into permanent good health and worldly wisdom, and freedom from doctorsâ fees, why he loses interest in us! Jove! I must note that down and bring it into my book.â
He pulled out a memorandum book and jotted down âChloroform Classicsâ in a small, neat hand.
âWell,â I said (I felt a little contrite, as I was sincerely sorry to have offended him), âIâve passed forty myself in some measurements, so youth no longer has any terrors for me.â
He looked at me rather comically.
âMy dear madam,â he said, âyour age is precisely eighteen. I think that if we escape the clutches of the Sage of Redfield you may really begin to live.â
âOh, Andrewâs not a bad sort,â I said. âHeâs absentminded, and hot tempered, and a little selfish. The publishers have done their best to spoil him, but for a literary man I guess heâs quite human. He rescued me from being a governess, and thatâs to his credit. If only he didnât take his meals quite so much as a matter of courseâ ââ âŠâ
âThe preposterous thing about him is that he really can write,â said Mifflin. âI envy him that. Donât let him know I said so, but as a matter of fact his prose is almost as good as Thoreau. He approaches facts as daintily as a cat crossing a wet road.â
âYou should see him at dinner,â I thought; or rather I meant to think it, but the words slipped out. I found myself thinking aloud in a rather disconcerting way while sitting
Comments (0)