I'm going to write a book
about 'Literature Among the Farmers,' and want to settle down with
my brother in Brooklyn and write it. I've got a sackful of notes for
it. I guess I'll just stick around until Mr. McGill gets home and
see if he won't buy me out. I'll sell the whole concern, horse,
wagon, and books, for $400. I've read Andrew McGill's stuff and I
reckon the proposition'll interest him. I've had more fun with this
Parnassus than a barrel of monkeys. I used to be a school teacher
till my health broke down. Then I took this up and I've made more
than expenses and had the time of my life."
"Well, Mr. Mifflin," I said, "if you want to stay around I guess I
can't stop you. But I'm sorry you and your old Parnassus ever came
this way."
I turned on my heel and went back to the kitchen. I knew pretty well
that Andrew would go up in the air when he saw that wagonload of
books and one of those crazy cards with Mr. Mifflin's poetry on it.
I must confess that I was considerably upset. Andrew is just as
unpractical and fanciful as a young girl, and always dreaming of
new adventures and rambles around the country.
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