Why had all this been hidden from me before? Why had the
transcendent mystery of baking bread blinded me so long to the
mysteries of sun and sky and wind in the trees? We passed
a white farmhouse close to the road. By the gate sat the
farmer on a log, whittling a stick and smoking his pipe.
Through the kitchen window I could see a woman blacking the
stove. I wanted to cry out: "Oh, silly woman! Leave your
stove, your pots and pans and chores, even if only for one
day! Come out and see the sun in the sky and the river in the
distance!" The farmer looked blankly at Parnassus as we
passed, and then I remembered my mission as a distributor of
literature. Mifflin was sitting with one foot on his bulging
portmanteau, watching the tree tops rocking in the cool wind.
He seemed to be far away in a morning muse. I threw down the
reins and accosted the farmer.
"Good-morning, friend."
"Morning to you, ma'am," he said firmly.
"I'm selling books," I said. "I wonder if there isn't
something you need?"
"Thanks, lady," he said, "but I bought a mort o' books last
year an' I don't believe I'll ever read 'em this side Jordan.
A whole set o' `Funereal Orations' what an agent left on me at
a dollar a month.
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