him 'Robinson Crusoe,' and 'Little Women' for his daughter, and
'Huck Finn,' and Grubb's book about 'The Potato.' Last time I was
there he wanted some Shakespeare, but I wouldn't give it to him.
I didn't think he was up to it yet."

I began to see something of the little man's idealism in his work.
He was a kind of traveling missionary in his way. A hefty talker,
too. His eyes were twinkling now and I could see him warming up.

"Lord!" he said, "when you sell a man a book you don't sell him
just twelve ounces of paper and ink and glue--you sell him a whole
new life. Love and friendship and humour and ships at sea by
night--there's all heaven and earth in a book, a real book I mean.
Jiminy! If I were the baker or the butcher or the broom huckster,
people would run to the gate when I came by--just waiting for my
stuff. And here I go loaded with everlasting salvation--yes, ma'am,
salvation for their little, stunted minds--and it's hard to make 'em
see it. That's what makes it worth while--I'm doing something that
nobody else from Nazareth, Maine, to Walla Walla, Washington, has
ever thought of. It's a new field, but by the bones of Whitman it's
worth while. That's what this country needs--more books!"

He laughed at his own vehemence. "Do you know, it's comical," he
said. "Even the publishers, the fellows that print the books,
can't see what I'm doing for them. Some of 'em refuse me credit
because I sell their books for what they're worth instead of
for the prices they mark on them. They write me letters about
price-maintenance--and I write back about merit-maintenance.
Publish a good book and I'll get a good price for it, Say I!
Sometimes I think the publishers know less about books than any