cers became a symbol of the order and
cleanliness that man imposes on the unruly world about him. I tore
down my book rack and reading lamp from over the sink.

"Mr. Gilbert," he went on, "do not laugh at me when I tell you that I
have evolved a whole kitchen philosophy of my own. I find the kitchen
the shrine of our civilization, the focus of all that is comely in
life. The ruddy shine of the stove is as beautiful as any sunset. A
well-polished jug or spoon is as fair, as complete and beautiful, as
any sonnet. The dish mop, properly rinsed and wrung and hung outside
the back door to dry, is a whole sermon in itself. The stars never
look so bright as they do from the kitchen door after the ice-box pan
is emptied and the whole place is 'redd up,' as the Scotch say."

"A very delightful philosophy indeed," said Gilbert. "And now that we
have finished our meal, I insist upon your letting me give you a hand
with the washing up. I am eager to test this dish-pantheism of yours!"

"My dear fellow," said Mifflin, laying a restraining hand on his
impetuous guest, "it is a poor philosophy that will not abide denial
now and then. No, no--I did not ask you to spend the evening with me
to wash dishes." And he led the way back to his sitting room.

"When I saw you come in," said Mifflin, "I was afraid you might be a
newspaper man, looking for an interview. A young journalist came to
see us once, with very unhappy results. He wheedled himself into Mrs.
Mifflin's good graces, and ended by putting us both into a book, called
Parnassus on Wheels, which has been rather a trial to me. In that book
he attributes to me a number of shallow and sugary observations upon
bookselling that have been an annoyance to the trade. I am happy to
say, though, that his book had only a trifling sale."

"I have never heard of it," said Gilbert.

"If you are really interested in bookselling you should come here some
evening to a meeting of the Corn Cob Club. Once a month a number of
booksellers gather here and we discuss matters of bookish concern over
corn-cobs and cider. We have all sorts and conditions of booksellers:
one is a fanatic on the subject of libraries. He thinks that every
public library should be dynamited. Another thinks that moving
pictures will destroy the book trade. What rot! Surely everything
that arouses people's minds, that makes them alert and questioning,
increases their appetite for books."

"The life of a