Nothing daunted Mifflin. He talked
to the old grandmother about quilts; offered to cut off a
strip of his necktie for her new patchwork; and told all about
the illustrated book on quilts that he had in the van. He
discussed cookery and the Bible with Mrs. Mason; and she being
a leading light in the Greenbriar Sunday School, was
pleasantly scandalized by his account of the best detective
stories in the Old Testament. With Mr. Mason he was all
scientific farming, chemical manures, macadam roads, and crop
rotation; and to little Billy (who sat next him) he told
extraordinary yarns about Daniel Boone, Davy Crockett, Kit
Carson, Buffalo Bill, and what not. Honestly I was amazed at
the little man. He was as genial as a cricket on the hearth,
and yet every now and then his earnestness would break
through. I don't wonder he was a success at selling books.
That man could sell clothes pins or Paris garters, I guess,
and make them seem romantic.
"You know, Mr. Mason," he said, "you certainly owe it to these
youngsters of yours to put a few really good books into their
hands. City kids have the libraries to go to, but in the}
country there's only old Doc Hostetter's Almanac and the
letters written by ladies with backache telling how Peruna did
for them.
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