Parnassus on Wheels by Christopher Morley Page B

its charms. I missed the Professor: missed his abrupt,
direct way of saying things, and his whimsical wit. And I was
annoyed by his skipping off without a word of good-bye. It didn't
seem natural. I partially appeased my irritation by stopping at a
farmhouse on the other side of the river and selling a cook book.
Then I started along the road for Bath—about five miles farther on.
Peg's foot didn't seem to bother her so I thought it would be safe
to travel that far before stopping for the night. Counting up the
days (with some difficulty: it seemed as though I had been away from
home a month), I remembered that this was Saturday night. I thought
I would stay in Bath over Sunday and get a good rest. We jogged
sedately along the road, and I got out a copy of "Vanity Fair." I
was so absorbed in Becky Sharp that I wouldn't even interrupt myself
to sell books at the houses we passed. I think reading a good book
makes one modest. When you see the marvellous insight into human
nature which a truly great book shows, it is bound to make you feel
small—like looking at the Dipper on a clear night, or seeing the
winter sunrise when you go out to collect the morning eggs. And
anything that makes you feel small is mighty good for you.
    "What do you mean by a great book?" said the Professor—I mean,
I imagined him saying it. It seemed to me as if I could see him
sitting there, with his corncob pipe in his hand and that quizzical
little face of his looking sharply at me. Somehow, talking with
the Professor had made me think. He was as good as one of those
Scranton correspondence courses, I do believe, and no money to pay
for postage.
    Well, I said to the Professor—to myself I mean—let's see: what
is
a good book? I don't mean books like Henry James's (he's
Andrew's great idol. It always seemed to me that he had a kind
of rush of words to the head and never stopped to sort them out
properly). A good book ought to have something simple about it. And,
like Eve, it ought to come from somewhere near the third rib: there
ought to be a heart beating in it. 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. If I ever sat down to read for ten minutes the cat would
get into the custard. No woman in the country sits down for fifteen
consecutive minutes between sunrise and sunset, anyway, unless
she has half a dozen servants. And nobody knows anything about
literature unless he spends most of his life sitting down. So
there you are.
    The cultivation of philosophic reflection was a new experience for
me. Peg ambled along contentedly and the dog trailed under Parnassus
where I had tied him. I read "Vanity Fair" and thought about all
sorts of things. Once I got out to pick some scarlet maple leaves
that attracted me. The motors passing annoyed me with their dust
and noise, but by