The Haunted Bookshop | Page 4

concocting schemes for cozening his fellows."
The little bookseller's bald pate shone in the light of the bulb hanging
over the wrapping table. His eyes were bright and earnest, his short red
beard bristled like wire. He wore a ragged brown Norfolk jacket from
which two buttons were missing.
A bit of a fanatic himself, thought the customer, but a very entertaining
one. "Well, sir," he said, "I am ever so grateful to you. I'll come again.
Good-night." And he started down the aisle for the door.
As he neared the front of the shop, Mr. Mifflin switched on a cluster of
lights that hung high up, and the young man found himself beside a
large bulletin board covered with clippings, announcements, circulars,
and little notices written on cards in a small neat script. The following
caught his eye:
RX
If your mind needs phosphorus, try "Trivia," by Logan Pearsall Smith.
If your mind needs a whiff of strong air, blue and cleansing, from
hilltops and primrose valleys, try "The Story of My Heart," by Richard
Jefferies.
If your mind needs a tonic of iron and wine, and a thorough
rough-and-tumbling, try Samuel Butler's "Notebooks" or "The Man
Who Was Thursday," by Chesterton.
If you need "all manner of Irish," and a relapse into irresponsible

freakishness, try "The Demi-Gods," by James Stephens. It is a better
book than one deserves or expects.
It's a good thing to turn your mind upside down now and then, like an
hour-glass, to let the particles run the other way.
One who loves the English tongue can have a lot of fun with a Latin
dictionary.
ROGER MIFFLIN.
Human beings pay very little attention to what is told them unless they
know something about it already. The young man had heard of none of
these books prescribed by the practitioner of bibliotherapy. He was
about to open the door when Mifflin appeared at his side.
"Look here," he said, with a quaint touch of embarrassment. "I was
very much interested by our talk. I'm all alone this evening-- my wife is
away on a holiday. Won't you stay and have supper with me? I was just
looking up some new recipes when you came in."
The other was equally surprised and pleased by this unusual invitation.
"Why--that's very good of you," he said. "Are you sure I won't be
intruding?"
"Not at all!" cried the bookseller. "I detest eating alone: I was hoping
someone would drop in. I always try to have a guest for supper when
my wife is away. I have to stay at home, you see, to keep an eye on the
shop. We have no servant, and I do the cooking myself. It's great fun.
Now you light your pipe and make yourself comfortable for a few
minutes while I get things ready. Suppose you come back to my den."
On a table of books at the front of the shop Mifflin laid a large card
lettered:
PROPRIETOR AT SUPPER IF YOU WANT ANYTHING RING
THIS BELL
Beside the card he placed a large old-fashioned dinner bell, and then
led the way to the rear of the shop.
Behind the little office in which this unusual merchant had been
studying his cook-book a narrow stairway rose on each side, running up
to the gallery. Behind these stairs a short flight of steps led to the
domestic recesses. The visitor found himself ushered into a small room
on the left, where a grate of coals glowed under a dingy mantelpiece of
yellowish marble. On the mantel stood a row of blackened corn-cob
pipes and a canister of tobacco. Above was a startling canvas in

emphatic oils, representing a large blue wagon drawn by a stout white
animal-- evidently a horse. A background of lush scenery enhanced the
forceful technique of the limner. The walls were stuffed with books.
Two shabby, comfortable chairs were drawn up to the iron fender, and
a mustard-coloured terrier was lying so close to the glow that a smell of
singed hair was sensible.
"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 Providence
and the kitchen stove. I'll bustle round and get supper." Gilbert pulled
out his pipe, and with a sense of elation prepared to enjoy an unusual
evening. He was a young man of agreeable parts, amiable and sensitive.
He knew his disadvantages in literary conversation, for he had gone to
an excellent college where glee clubs and theatricals had left him little
time for reading. But still he was a lover of good books, though he
knew them chiefly by hearsay. He was twenty-five years old, employed
as