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had gathered he would put up the flaps of the van, distribute his cards, and deliver a harangue on the value of good books. I lay concealed inside, but I gathered from the sounds that this was what was happening. We came to a stop; I heard a growing murmur of voices and laughter outside, and then the click of the raised sides of the wagon. I heard Mifflinā€™s shrill, slightly nasal voice making facetious remarks as he passed out the cards. Evidently Bock was quite accustomed to the routine, for though his tail wagged gently when the Professor began to talk, he lay quite peaceably dozing at my feet.

ā€œMy friends,ā€ said Mr. Mifflin. ā€œYou remember Abe Lincolnā€™s joke about the dog? If you call a tail a leg, said Abe, how many legs has a dog? Five, you answer. No, says Abe; because calling a tail a leg doesnā€™t make it a leg. Well, there are lots of us in the same case as that dogā€™s tail. Calling us men doesnā€™t make us men. No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesnā€™t know at least one good book. The man that spends every evening chewing Piper Heidsieck at the store is unworthy to catch the intimations of a benevolent Creator. The man thatā€™s got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and heā€™s likely to be a better citizen himself. How about that, parson?ā€

I heard the deep voice of Reverend Kane, the Methodist minister: ā€œYouā€™re dead right, Professor!ā€ he shouted. ā€œTell us some more about books. Iā€™m right with you!ā€ Evidently Mr. Kane had been attracted by the sight of Parnassus, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he pulled one or two books from the shelves. How surprised he would have been if he had known I was inside the van! I took the precaution of slipping the bolt of the door at the back, and drew the curtains. Then I crept back into the bunk. I began to imagine what an absurd situation there would be if Andrew should arrive on the scene.

ā€œYou are all used to hucksters and pedlars and fellows selling every kind of junk from brooms to bananas,ā€ said the Professorā€™s voice. ā€œBut how often does anyone come round here to sell you books? Youā€™ve got your town library, I dare say; but there are some books that folks ought to own. Iā€™ve got ā€™em all here from Bibles to cookbooks. Theyā€™ll speak for themselves. Step up to the shelves, friends, and pick and choose.ā€

I heard the parson asking the price of something he had found on the shelves, and I believe he bought it; but the hum of voices around the flanks of Parnassus was very soothing, and in spite of my interest in what was going on Iā€™m afraid I fell asleep. I must have been pretty tired; anyway I never felt the van start again. The Professor says he looked in through the little window from the driverā€™s seat, and saw me sound asleep. And the next thing I knew I woke up with a start to find myself rolling leisurely in the dark. Bock was still lying over my feet, and there was a faint, musical clang from the bucket under the van which struck against something now and then. The Professor was sitting in front, with a lighted lantern hanging from the peak of the van roof. He was humming some outlandish song to himself, with a queer, monotonous refrain:

Shipwrecked was I off Soft Perowse
And right along the shore,
And so I did resolve to roam
The country to explore.
Tommy rip fal lal and a balum tip
Tommy rip fal lal I dee;
And so I did resolve to roam
The country for to see!

I jumped out of the bunk, cracked my shins against something, and uttered a rousing hallo. Parnassus stopped, and the Professor pushed back the sliding window behind the driverā€™s seat.

ā€œHeavens!ā€ I said. ā€œFather Time, what oā€™clock is it?ā€

ā€œPretty near supper time, I reckon. You must have fallen asleep while I was taking money from the Philistines. I made nearly three dollars for you. Letā€™s pull up along the road and have a bite to eat.ā€

He guided Pegasus to one side of the road, and then showed me how to light the swinging lamp that hung under the skylight. ā€œNo use to light the stove on a lovely evening like this,ā€ he said. ā€œIā€™ll collect some sticks and we can cook outside. You get out your basket of grub and Iā€™ll make a fire.ā€ He unhitched Pegasus, tied her to a tree, and gave her a nose bag of oats. Then he rooted around for some twigs and had a fire going in a jiffy. In five minutes I had bacon and scrambled eggs sizzling in a frying pan, and he had brought out a pail of water from the cooler under the bunk, and was making tea.

I never enjoyed a picnic so much! It was a perfect autumn evening, windless and frosty, with a dead black sky and a tiny rim of new moon like a thumbnail paring. We had our eggs and bacon, washed down with tea and condensed milk, and followed by bread and jam. The little fire burned blue and cozy, and we sat on each side of it while Bock scoured the pan and ate the crusts.

ā€œThis your own bread, Miss McGill?ā€ he asked.

ā€œYes,ā€ I said. ā€œI was calculating the other day that Iā€™ve baked more than 400 loaves a year for the last fifteen years. Thatā€™s more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on my tombstone.ā€

ā€œThe art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the art of making sonnets,ā€ said Redbeard. ā€œAnd then your hot biscuitsā ā€”they might be counted as shorter lyrics, I supposeā ā€”triolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or a doxology, if you prefer

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