I've
covered the territory from Florida to Maine and I reckon I've
injected about as much good literature into the countryside as
ever old Doc Eliot did with his five-foot shelf. I want to
sell out now. I'm going to write a book about `Literature
Among the Farmers,' and want to settle down with my brother in
Brooklyn and write it. I've got a sackful of notes for it.
I guess I'll just stick around until Mr. McGill gets home and
see if he won't buy me out. I'll sell the whole concern,
horse, wagon, and books, for $400. I've read Andrew McGill's
stuff and I reckon the proposition'll interest him. I've had
more fun with this Parnassus than a barrel of monkeys. I used to
be a school teacher till my health broke down. Then I took this
up and I've made more than expenses and had the time of my life."
"Well, Mr. Mifflin," I said, "if you want to stay around I
guess I can't stop you. But I'm sorry you and your old
Parnassus ever came this way."
I turned on my heel and went back to the kitchen. I knew
pretty well that Andrew would go up in the air when he saw
that wagonload of books and one of those crazy cards with Mr.
Mifflin's poetry on it.
I must confess that I was considerably upset.
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