experience. As far as I can see, a man who's fond of books never
need starve! But this winter I'm planing to live with my brother in
Brooklyn and slog away at my book. Lord, how I've pondered over that
thing! Long summer afternoons I've sat here, jogging along in the
dust, thinking it out until it seemed as if my forehead would burst.
You see, my idea is that the common people--in the country, that
is--never have had any chance to get hold of books, and never have
had any one to explain what books can mean. It's all right for
college presidents to draw up their five-foot shelves of great
literature, and for the publishers to advertise sets of their
Linoleum Classics, but what the people need is the good, homely,
honest stuff--something that'll stick to their ribs--make them laugh
and tremble and feel sick to think of the littleness of this popcorn
ball spinning in space without ever even getting a hot-box! And
something that'll spur 'em on to keep the hearth well swept and the
wood pile split into kindling and the dishes washed and dried and
put away. Any one who can get the country people to read something
worth while is doing his nation a real service. And that's what
this caravan of culture aspires to.... You must be weary of this
harangue! Does the Sage of Redfield ever run on like that?"

"Not to me," I said. "He's known me so long that he thinks of me as
a kind of animated bread-baking and cake-mixing machine. I guess he
doesn't put much stock in my judgment in literary matters. But he
puts his digestion in my hands without reserve. There's Mason's
farm over there. I guess we'd better sell them some books--hadn't
we? Just for a starter."

We turned into the lane that runs up to the Mason farmhouse. Bock
trotted on ahead--very stiff on his legs and his tail gently