Take O. Henry, for
instance--there isn't anybody so dog-gone sleepy that he won't
enjoy that man's stories. He understood life, you bet, and he
could write it down with all its little twists. I've spent an
evening reading O. Henry and Wilkie Collins to people and had
them buy out all their books I had and clamour for more."
"What do you do in winter?" I asked--a practical question, as
most of mine are.
"That depends on where I am when bad weather sets in," said
Mr. Mifflin. "Two winters I was down south and managed to
keep Parnassus going all through the season. Otherwise, I
just lay up wherever I am. I've never found it hard to get
lodging for Peg and a job for myself, if I had to have them.
Last winter I worked in a bookstore in Boston. Winter before,
I was in a country drugstore down in Pennsylvania. Winter
before that, I tutored a couple of small boys in English
literature. Winter before that, I was a steward on a steamer;
you see how it goes. I've had a fairly miscellaneous
experience. As far as I can see, a man who's fond of books
never need starve! But this winter I'm planing to live with
my brother in Brooklyn and slog away at my book. Lord, how
I've pondered over that thing! Long summer afternoons I've
sat here, jogging along in the dust, thinking it out until it
seemed as if my forehead would burst.
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