It's a new field, but by the bones of Whitman
it's worth while. That's what this country needs--more books!"}
He laughed at his own vehemence. "Do you know, it's comical,"
he said. "Even the publishers, the fellows that print the
books, can't see what I'm doing for them. Some of 'em refuse
me credit because I sell their books for what they're worth
instead of for the prices they mark on them. They write me
letters about price-maintenance--and I write back about
merit-maintenance. Publish a good book and I'll get a good
price for it, Say I! Sometimes I think the publishers know
less about books than any one else! I guess that's natural,
though. Most school teachers don't know much about children."
"The best of it is," he went on, "I have such a darn good
time. Peg and Bock (that's the dog) and I go loafing along
the road on a warm summer day, and by and by we'll fetch up
alongside some boarding-house and there are the boarders all
rocking off their lunch on the veranda. Most of 'em bored to
death--nothing good to read, nothing to do but sit and watch
the flies buzzing in the sun and the chickens rubbing up and
down in the dust. First thing you know I'll sell half a dozen
books that put the love of life into them, and they don't
forget Parnassus in a hurry.
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