“Well, see here,” said the little man—­and about this time I noticed that he had the bright eyes of a fanatic—­“I’ve been cruising with this Parnassus going on seven years.  I’ve covered the territory from Florida to Maine and I reckon I’ve injected about as much good literature into the countryside as ever old Doc Eliot did with his five-foot shelf.  I want to sell out now.  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.  If he ever saw that travelling Parnassus he’d fall for it like snap.  And I knew Mr. Decameron was after him for a new book anyway. (I’d intercepted one of his letters suggesting another “Happiness and Hayseed” trip just a few weeks before.  Andrew was away when the letter came.  I had a suspicion what was in it; so I opened it, read it, and—­well, burnt it.  Heavens! as though Andrew didn’t have enough to do without mooning down the road like a tinker, just to write a book about it.)

As I worked around the kitchen I could see Mr. Mifflin making himself at home.  He unhitched his horse, tied her up to the fence, sat down by the wood pile, and lit a pipe.  I could see I was in for it.  By and by I couldn’t stand it any longer.  I went out to talk to that bald-headed pedlar.

“See here,” I said.  “You’re a pretty cool fish to make yourself so easy in my yard.  I tell you I don’t want you around here, you and your travelling parcheesi.  Suppose you clear out of here before my brother gets back and don’t be breaking up our happy family.”

“Miss McGill,” he said (the man had a pleasant way with him, too—­darn him—­with his bright, twinkling eye and his silly little beard), “I’m sure I don’t want to be discourteous.  If you move me on from here, of course I’ll go; but I warn you I shall lie in wait for Mr. McGill just down this road.  I’m here to sell this caravan of culture, and by the bones of Swinburne I think your brother’s the man to buy it.”