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 starter."

We turned into the lane that runs up to the Mason farmhouse.
Bock trotted on ahead--very stiff on his legs and his tail
gently wagging--to interview the mastiff, and Mrs. Mason who
was sitting on the porch, peeling potatoes, laid down the pan.
She's a big, buxom woman with jolly, brown eyes like a cow's.

"For heaven's sake, Miss McGill," she called out in a cheerful
voice--"I'm glad to see you.  Got a lift, did you?"

She hadn't really noticed the inscription on Parnassus, and
thought it was a regular huckster's wagon.

"Well, Mrs. Mason," I said, "I've gone into the book business.
This is Mr. Mifflin.  I've bought out his stock.  We've come
to sell you some books."

She laughed.  "Go on, Helen," she said, "you can't kid me!  I
bought a whole set of books last year from an agent--`The
World's Great Funeral Orations'--twenty volumes.  Sam and I ain't
read more'n the first volume yet.  It's awful uneasy reading!"

Mifflin jumped down, and raised the side flap of the wagon.
Mrs. Mason came closer.  I was tickled to see how the little
man perked up at the sight of a customer.  Evidently selling
books was meat and drink to him.

"Madam," he said, "`Funeral Orations' (bound in sackcloth, I
suppose?) have their place, but Miss McGill and I have got
some real books here to which I invite your attention.  Winter
will be here soon, and you will need something more cheerful
to beguile your evenings.  Very possibly you have growing
children who would profit by a good book or two.  A book of
fairy tales for the little girl I see on the porch?  Or
stories of inventors for that boy who is about to break his
neck jumping from the barn loft?  Or a book about road making
for your husband?  Surely there is something here you need?
Miss McGill probably knows your tastes."

That little red-bearded man was surely a born salesman.  How
he guessed that Mr. Mason was the road commissioner in our
township, goodness only knows.  Perhaps it was just a lucky
shot.  By this time most of the family had gathered around the
van, and I saw Mr. Mason coming from the barn with his
twelve-year-old Billy.

"Sam," shouted Mrs. Mason, "here's Miss McGill turned book
pedlar and got a preacher with her!"

"Hello, Miss McGill," said Mr. Mason.  He is a big, slow-
moving man of great gravity and solidity.  "Where's Andrew?"

"Andrew's coming home for roast pork and apple sauce," I said,
"and I'm going off to sell books for a living.  Mr. Mifflin
here is teaching me how.  We've got a book on road mending
that's just what you need."

I saw Mr. and Mrs. Mason exchange glances.  Evidently they
thought me crazy.  I began to wonder whether we had made a
mistake in calling on people I knew so well.  The situation
was a trifle embarrassing.

Mr. Mifflin came to the rescue.

"Don't be alarmed, sir," he said to Mr. Mason.  "I haven't
kidnapped Miss McGill."  (As he is about half my size this was
amusing.)  "We are trying to increase her brother's income by
selling his books for him.  As a matter of fact, we have a
wager with him that we can sell fifty copies of `Happiness and
Hayseed' before Hallowe'en.  Now I'm sure your sporting
instinct will assist us by taking at least one copy.  Andrew
McGill is probably the greatest author in this State, and every
taxpayer ought to possess his books.  May I show you a copy?"

"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Mason, and he almost
smiled.  "What do you say, Emma, think we better buy a book or
two?  You know those `Funeral Orations.'..."
"Well," said Emma, "you know we've always said we ought to
read one of Andrew McGill's books but we didn't rightly know
how to get hold of one.  That fellow that sold us the funeral