A story that's all forehead doesn't amount to
much. Anyway, it'll never get over at a Dorcas meeting. That
was the trouble with Henry James. Andrew talked so much about
him that I took one of his books to read aloud at our sewing
circle over at Redfield. Well, after one try we had to fall
back on "Pollyanna."
I haven't been doing chores and running a farmhouse for
fifteen years without getting some ideas about life--and even
about books. I wouldn't set my lit'ry views up against yours,
Professor (I was still talking to Mifflin in my mind), no, nor
even against Andrew's--but as I say, I've got some ideas of
my own. I've learned that honest work counts in writing books
just as much as it does in washing dishes. I guess Andrew's
books must be some good after all because he surely does mull
over them without end. I can forgive his being a shiftless
farmer so long as he really does his literary chores up to the
hilt. A man can be slack in everything else, if he does one
thing as well as he possibly can. And I guess it won't matter
my being an ignoramus in literature so long as I'm rated A-1
in the kitchen. That's what I used to think as I polished and
scoured and scrubbed and dusted and swept and then set about
getting dinner.
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