Parnassus on Wheels Christopher Morley (no david read aloud txt) š
- Author: Christopher Morley
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āMy friends,ā said Mr. Mifflin. āYou remember Abe Lincolnās 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 doesnāt make it a leg. Well, there are lots of us in the same case as that dogās tail. Calling us men doesnāt make us men. No creature on earth has a right to think himself a human being if he doesnāt 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 thatās got a few good books on his shelf is making his wife happy, giving his children a square deal, and heās likely to be a better citizen himself. How about that, parson?ā
I heard the deep voice of Reverend Kane, the Methodist minister: āYouāre dead right, Professor!ā he shouted. āTell us some more about books. Iām 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.
āYou are all used to hucksters and pedlars and fellows selling every kind of junk from brooms to bananas,ā said the Professorās voice. āBut how often does anyone come round here to sell you books? Youāve got your town library, I dare say; but there are some books that folks ought to own. Iāve got āem all here from Bibles to cookbooks. Theyāll 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 Iām 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 driverās 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 driverās seat.
āHeavens!ā I said. āFather Time, what oāclock is it?ā
āPretty 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. Letās 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. āNo use to light the stove on a lovely evening like this,ā he said. āIāll collect some sticks and we can cook outside. You get out your basket of grub and Iāll 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.
āThis your own bread, Miss McGill?ā he asked.
āYes,ā I said. āI was calculating the other day that Iāve baked more than 400 loaves a year for the last fifteen years. Thatās more than 6,000 loaves of bread. They can put that on my tombstone.ā
āThe art of baking bread is as transcendent a mystery as the art of making sonnets,ā said Redbeard. āAnd then your hot biscuitsā āthey might be counted as shorter lyrics, I supposeā ātriolets perhaps. That makes quite an anthology, or a doxology, if you prefer
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