The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (good books to read for 12 year olds .txt) đź“•
"There," said the host; "this is my cabinet, my chapel of ease.Take off your coat and sit down."
"Really," began Gilbert, "I'm afraid this is----"
"Nonsense! Now you sit down and commend your soul to Providenceand the kitc
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“How about the Americans?” said Titania. “Haven’t they written anything about the war that’s worth while?”
“Here’s one that I found a lot of meat in, streaked with philosophical gristle,” said Roger, relighting his pipe. He pulled out a copy of Professor Latimer’s Progress. “There was one passage that I remember marking—let’s see now, what was it?—Yes, here!
“It is true that, if you made a poll of newspaper editors, you might find a great many who think that war is evil. But if you were to take a census among pastors of fashionable metropolitan churches—”
“That’s a bullseye hit! The church has done for itself with most thinking men… . There’s another good passage in Professor Latimer, where he points out the philosophical value of dishwashing. Some of Latimer’s talk is so much in common with my ideas that I’ve been rather hoping he’d drop in here some day. I’d like to meet him. As for American poets, get wise to Edwin Robinson–-”
There is no knowing how long the bookseller’s monologue might have continued, but at this moment Helen appeared from the kitchen.
“Good gracious, Roger!” she exclaimed, “I’ve heard your voice piping away for I don’t know how long. What are you doing, giving the poor child a Chautauqua lecture? You must want to frighten her out of the book business.”
Roger looked a little sheepish. “My dear,” he said, “I was only laying down a few of the principles underlying the art of bookselling–-”
“It was very interesting, honestly it was,” said Titania brightly. Mrs. Mifflin, in a blue check apron and with plump arms floury to the elbow, gave her a wink—or as near a wink as a woman ever achieves (ask the man who owns one).
“Whenever Mr. Mifflin feels very low in his mind about the business,” she said, “he falls back on those highly idealized sentiments. He knows that next to being a parson, he’s got into the worst line there is, and he tries bravely to conceal it from himself.”
“I think it’s too bad to give me away before Miss Titania,” said Roger, smiling, so Titania saw this was merely a family joke.
“Really truly,” she protested, “I’m having a lovely time. I’ve been learning all about Professor Latimer who wrote The Handle of Europe, and all sorts of things. I’ve been afraid every minute that some customer would come in and interrupt us.”
“No fear of that,” said Helen. “They’re scarce in the early morning.” She went back to her kitchen.
“Well, Miss Titania,” resumed Roger. “You see what I’m driving at. I want to give people an entirely new idea about bookshops. The grain of glory that I hope will cure both my fever and my lethargicness is my conception of the bookstore as a power-house, a radiating place for truth and beauty. I insist books are not absolutely dead things: they are as lively as those fabulous dragons’ teeth, and being sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. How about Bernhardi? Some of my Corn Cob friends tell me books are just merchandise. Pshaw!”
“I haven’t read much of Bernard Shaw” said Titania.
“Did you ever notice how books track you down and hunt you out? They follow you like the hound in Francis Thompson’s poem. They know their quarry! Look at that book The Education of Henry Adams! Just watch the way it’s hounding out thinking people this winter. And The Four Horsemen—you can see it racing in the veins of the reading people. It’s one of the uncanniest things I know to watch a real book on its career—it follows you and follows you and drives you into a corner and MAKES you read it. There’s a queer old book that’s been chasing me for years: The Life and Opinions of John Buncle, Esq., it’s called. I’ve tried to escape it, but every now and then it sticks up its head somewhere. It’ll get me some day, and I’ll be compelled to read it. Ten Thousand a Year trailed me the same way until I surrendered. Words can’t describe the cunning of some books. You’ll think you’ve shaken them off your trail, and then one day some innocent-looking customer will pop in and begin to talk, and you’ll know he’s an unconscious agent of book-destiny. There’s an old sea-captain who drops in here now and then. He’s simply the novels of Captain Marryat put into flesh. He has me under a kind of spell; I know I shall have to read Peter Simple before I die, just because the old fellow loves it so. That’s why I call this place the Haunted Bookshop. Haunted by the ghosts of the books I haven’t read. Poor uneasy spirits, they walk and walk around me. There’s only one way to lay the ghost of a book, and that is to read it.”
“I know what you mean,” said Titania. “I haven’t read much Bernard Shaw, but I feel I shall have to. He meets me at every turn, bullying me. And I know lots of people who are simply terrorized by H. G. Wells. Every time one of his books comes out, and that’s pretty often, they’re in a perfect panic until they’ve read it.”
Roger chuckled. “Some have even been stampeded into subscribing to the New Republic for that very purpose.”
“But speaking of the Haunted Bookshop, what’s your special interest in that Oliver Cromwell book?”
“Oh, I’m glad you mentioned it,” said Roger. “I must put it back in its place on the shelf.” He ran back to the den to get it, and just then the bell clanged at the door. A customer came in, and the one-sided gossip was over for the time being.
I am sensible that Mr. Aubrey Gilbert is by no means ideal as the leading juvenile of our piece. The time still demands some explanation why the leading juvenile wears no gold chevrons on his left sleeve. As a matter of fact, our young servant of the Grey-Matter Agency had been declined by a recruiting station and a draft board on account of flat feet; although I must protest that their flatness detracts not at all from his outward bearing nor from his physical capacity in the ordinary concerns of amiable youth. When the army “turned him down flat,” as he put it, he had entered the service of the Committee on Public Information, and had carried on mysterious activities in their behalf for over a year, up to the time when the armistice was signed by the United Press. Owing to a small error of judgment on his part, now completely forgotten, but due to the regrettable delay of the German envoys to synchronize with over-exuberant press correspondents, the last three days of the war had been carried on without his active assistance. After the natural recuperation necessary on the 12th of November, he had been re-absorbed by the Grey-Matter Advertising Agency, with whom he had been connected for several years, and where his sound and vivacious qualities were highly esteemed. It was in the course of drumming up post-war business that he had swung so far out of his ordinary orbit as to call on Roger Mifflin. Perhaps these explanations should have been made earlier.
At any rate, Aubrey woke that Saturday morning, about the time Titania began to dust the pavement-boxes, in no very world-conquering humour. As it was a half-holiday, he felt no compunction in staying away from the office. The landlady, a motherly soul, sent him up some coffee and scrambled eggs, and insisted on having a doctor in to look at his damage. Several stitches were taken, after which he had a nap. He woke up at noon, feeling better, though his head still ached abominably. Putting on a dressing gown, he sat down in his modest chamber, which was furnished chiefly with a pipe-rack, ash trays, and a set of O. Henry, and picked up one of his favourite volumes for a bit of solace. We have hinted that Mr. Gilbert was not what is called “literary.” His reading was mostly of the newsstand sort, and Printer’s Ink, that naive journal of the publicity professions. His favourite diversion was luncheon at the Advertising Club where he would pore, fascinated, over displays of advertising booklets, posters, and pamphlets with such titles as Tell Your Story in Bold-Face. He was accustomed to remark that “the fellow who writes the Packard ads has Ralph Waldo Emerson skinned three ways from the Jack.” Yet much must be forgiven this young man for his love of O. Henry. He knew, what many other happy souls have found, that O. Henry is one of those rare and gifted tellers of tales who can be read at all times. No matter how weary, how depressed, how shaken in morale, one can always find enjoyment in that master romancer of the Cabarabian Nights. “Don’t talk to me of Dickens’ Christmas Stories,” Aubrey said to himself, recalling his adventure in Brooklyn. “I’ll bet O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi beats anything Dick ever laid pen to. What a shame he died without finishing that Christmas story in Rolling Stones! I wish some boss writer like Irvin Cobb or Edna Ferber would take a hand at finishing it. If I were an editor I’d hire someone to wind up that yarn. It’s a crime to have a good story like that lying around half written.”
He was sitting in a soft wreath of cigarette smoke when his landlady came in with the morning paper.
“Thought you might like to see the Times, Mr. Gilbert,” she said. “I knew you’d been too sick to go out and buy one. I see the President’s going to sail on Wednesday.”
Aubrey threaded his way through the news with the practiced eye of one who knows what interests him. Then, by force of habit, he carefully scanned the advertising pages. A notice in the HELP WANTED columns leaped out at him.
WANTED—For temporary employment at Hotel Octagon, 3 chefs, 5 experienced cooks, 20 waiters. Apply chef’s office, 11 P.M. Tuesday.
“Hum,” he thought. “I suppose, to take the place of those fellows who are going to sail on the George Washington to cook for Mr. Wilson. That’s a grand ad for the Octagon, having their kitchen staff chosen for the President’s trip. Gee, I wonder why they don’t play that up in some real space? Maybe I can place some copy for them along that line.”
An idea suddenly occurred to him, and he went over to the chair where he had thrown his overcoat the night before. From the pocket he took out the cover of Carlyle’s Cromwell, and looked at it carefully.
“I wonder what the jinx is on this book?” he thought. “It’s a queer thing the way that fellow trailed me last night—then my finding this in the drug store, and getting that crack on the bean. I wonder if that neighbourhood is a safe place for a girl to work in?”
He paced up and down the room, forgetting the pain in his head.
“Maybe I ought to tip the police off about this business,” he thought. “It looks wrong to me. But I have a
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