Parnassus on Wheels Read Free Page A

years—yes, sir, ever since
I was twenty-five—and hardly ever been away except for that trip
to Boston once a year to go shopping with cousin Edie. I'm a
home-keeping soul, I guess, and I love my kitchen and my preserve
cupboard and my linen closet as well as grandmother ever did, but
something in that blue October air and that crazy little red-bearded
man just tickled me.
    "Look here, Mr. Parnassus," I said, "I guess I'm a fat old fool but
I just believe I'll do that. You hitch up your horse and van and
I'll go pack some clothes and write you a check. It'll do Andrew all
the good in the world to have me skip. I'll get a chance to read a
few books, too. It'll be as good as going to college!" And I untied
my apron and ran for the house. The little man stood leaning against
a corner of the van as if he were stupefied. I dare say he was.
    I ran into the house through the front door, and it struck me as
comical to see a copy of one of Andrew's magazines lying on the
living-room table with "The Revolt of Womanhood" printed across
it in red letters. "Here goes for the revolt of Helen McGill," I
thought. I sat down at Andrew's desk, pushed aside a pad of notes
he had been jotting down about "the magic of autumn," and scrawled
a few lines:
    DEAR ANDREW,
    Don't be thinking I'm crazy. I've gone off for an adventure. It just
came over me that you've had all the adventures while I've been at
home baking bread. Mrs. McNally will look after your meals and one
of her girls can come over to do the housework. So don't worry. I'm
going off for a little while—a month, maybe—to see some of this
happiness and hayseed of yours. It's what the magazines call the
revolt of womanhood. Warm underwear in the cedar chest in the spare
room when you need it. With love, HELEN.
    I left the note on his desk.
    Mrs. McNally was bending over the tubs in the laundry. I could see
only the broad arch of her back and hear the vigorous zzzzzzz of her
rubbing. She straightened up at my call.
    "Mrs. McNally," I said, "I'm going away for a little trip. You'd
better let the washing go until this afternoon and get Andrew's
dinner for him. He'll be back about twelve-thirty. It's half-past
ten now. You tell him I've gone over to see Mrs. Collins at Locust
Farm."
    Mrs. McNally is a brawny, slow-witted Swede. "All right Mis'
McGill," she said. "You be back to denner?"
    "No, I'm not coming back for a month," I said. "I'm going away for
a trip. I want you to send Rosie over here every day to do the
housework while I'm away. You can arrange with Mr. McGill about
that. I've got to hurry now."
    Mrs. McNally's honest eyes, as blue as Copenhagen china, gazing
through the window in perplexity, fell upon the travelling Parnassus
and Mr. Mifflin backing Pegasus into the shafts. I saw her make a
valiant effort to comprehend the sign painted on the side of the
van—and give it up.
    "You going driving?" she said blankly.
    "Yes," I said, and fled upstairs.
    I always keep my bank book in an old Huyler box in the top drawer
of my bureau. I don't save very quickly, I'm afraid. I have a
little income from some money father left me, but Andrew takes care
of that. Andrew pays all the farm expenses, but the housekeeping
accounts fall to me. I make a fairish amount of pin money on my
poultry and some of my preserves that I send to Boston, and on some
recipes of mine that I send to a woman's magazine now and then; but
generally my savings don't amount to much over $10 a month. In the
last five years I had put by something more than $600. I had been
saving up for a Ford. But just now it looked to me as if that
Parnassus would be more fun than a Ford ever could be. Four hundred
dollars was a lot of money, but I thought of what it would mean
to have Andrew come home and buy it. Why, he'd be away until
Thanksgiving! Whereas if I bought it I could take it away, have my
adventure, and sell it somewhere so that Andrew never need see it.
I hardened my heart and determined to give the Sage of