Part 4

Triumphantly the toiler roared, “I get three bones a day and board! That’s going some, eh, what?” And on he labored, brave and strong; the work was hard, the hours were long, the day was passing hot. I sat at ease beneath a tree—that sort of thing appeals to me—and watched him as he toiled; the sweat rolled down him in a stream, and I could see his garments steam, his face and hands were broiled. He chuckled as he toiled away, “They’re paying me three bones a day, with board and washing, too!” That was his dream of easy mon—to stew and simmer in the sun, for that, the long day through! And I, who earn three iron men with sundry scratches of a pen, felt sorry for the jay; but, as I watched his stalwart form, the pity that was growing warm within me, blew away. For he was getting more than wealth—keen appetite and rugged health, and blessings such as those; and when the day of toil was through, no doubt the stalwart worker knew a weary child’s repose!

WHAT I’D DO

If I were Binks the baker, I’d tidy up my store; I would not have an acre of dust upon the floor. I’d be a skilled adjuster and make things please the eyes; I’d take a feather duster and clean the pumpkin pies. I’d keep the doorknob shining, and polish up the glass, and never sit repining, and never say, “Alas!”

If I were Binks the baker, I’d have a cheerful heart, as always should the maker of bread and pie and tart; for looking sad and grewsome will never bring the trade of folks who want to chew some doughnuts and marmalade. When I go blowing money I always seek the store whose boss is gay and sunny, with gladness bubbling o’er; and when I chance to enter a bakery whose chief is roaring like a stentor about his woe and grief, his bellowings confound me, I do not spend a yen; I merely glance around me, and hustle out again.

If I were Binks the baker, and had a grouch on hand, I’d surely try to shake her, and smile to beat the band. For no one wants to harken to tales of woe and strife, to hear of clouds that darken a merchant’s weary life. For customers, have troubles, like you, through all their years; and when they spend their rubles they are not buying tears. They’ll like you all the better, you and your cakes and jam, if you are not a fretter, a kicker and a clam.

If I were Bakes, the binker—my wires are crossed, I swow—I’d sell the pie and sinker with calm, unclouded brow. No grumblings wild and woolly would from my larynx slide; I’d swear that things were bully, and seven meters wide. Then folks would all admire me, and seek me in my den, and load me till they’d tire me, with kopecks, taels, and yen.

THE FORTUNE TELLER

A gypsy maiden, strangely wise, with dusky hair and midnight eyes, my future life unveiled; she said she’d read the lines of fate for many another trusting skate, and never yet had failed. She was a maid of savage charms; great brazen rings were on her arms, and she had strings of beads; with trinkets she was loaded down; the noisy colors of her gown recalled no widow’s weeds. She told me I would live to be as rich as Andy or John D., my dreams would all come true; I’d have a palace on a hill, and vassals near to do my will, a yacht to sail the blue. And as she told what blessings fine, what great rewards and gifts were mine, in low and dulcet tones, her nimble fingers, ne’er at rest, got closer to my checkered vest, and lifted seven bones. She touched me for my meager roll, that poor misguided, heathen soul, but still her victim smiles; she gave me dreams for half a day and took me with her to Cathay and the enchanted isles. Her glamour caused me to forget a little while, the strife and sweat, the city’s bricks and stones; she took my toilworn soul abroad, and she is welcome to my wad—I still have seven bones.

GOLD BRICKS

Young Jack goes forth to call on Rose, attired in gorgeous raiment (and for that gaudy suit of clothes the tailor seeks his payment); his teeth are scoured, his shoes are shined, the barber man’s been active—in sooth, it’s hard to call to mind a fellow more attractive.

And Rose is waiting at the gate, as blithely Jack advances; she has her angel smile on straight, and charming are her glances. She’s spent at least a half a day (to temper’s sore abrasion) to get herself in brave array, in shape for this occasion. All afternoon, with patient care, she tried on heaps of dresses; her gentle mother heard her swear while combing out her tresses. But now, as lovely as the day, with trouble unacquainted, she looks as though she grew that way and never puffed or painted.

And so they both, on dress parade, sit down within the arbor, she well upholstered by her maid, he scented by his barber. They talk of painters, Spanish, Dutch; they talk of Keats and Dante—for whom they do not care as much as does your maiden auntie. Now Jack is down upon his knees! By jings! he is proposing! His vows, a-floating on the breeze, his ardor are disclosing! And Rose! Her bliss is now begun—she’s made her little capture. Oh, chee! two hearts that beat as one, and all that sort of rapture!

And there is none to say to Rose, “Don’t rush into a marriage! You’re getting but a suit of clothes, some gall, a princely carriage! This man upon whose breast you lean too often has a jag on; he couldn’t buy the raw benzine to run your chug-chug wagon! Of tawdry thoughts he is the fount; his heart is cold and stony. He’s ornery and no account; his stately front is phony! He owes for all the duds he wears, for all the grub he’s swallowed, and at his heels, on streets and stairs, the bailiffs long have followed!”

And there is none to say to Jack, “Don’t wed that dazzling maiden! You think that down a starry track she slid to you from Aidenn; but she is selfishness boiled down—as mother oft discovers—and in the house she wears a frown; she keeps her smiles for lovers. She never did a useful thing or had a thought uplifting, and ere she gets you on her string, look out where you are drifting!”

There’s none who dares to tell the truth or point the proper courses, so foolish maid weds foolish youth, and then we have divorces!

AMBITIONS

Ah, once, in sooth, in days of youth, I longed to be a pirate; the corsair’s fame for deeds of shame—all boys did once desire it. At night when gleamed the stars I dreamed of sacking Spanish vessels, of clanging swords and dripping boards, and bloody scraps and wrestles. Then “One-Eyed Lief” the pirate chief my hero was and model; in dreams I’d hold his stolen gold till I could scarcely waddle. But father took his shepherd’s crook and lammed me like tarnation, till I forgot that sort of rot for milder aspiration.

And still I dreamed; and now I seemed to be a baseball pitcher, adored by all, both great and small, in wealth grown rich and richer. My dreaming eyes saw crowds arise and bless me from the bleachers, when I struck out some pinch hit lout and beat those Mudville creatures. I seemed to stand, sublime and grand, the idol of all fandom; men thought me swell, and treasured well the words I spoke at random. Ah, boyhood schemes, and empty dreams of glory, fame and riches! My mother came and tanned my frame with sundry birchen switches, and brought me back to duty’s track, and made me hoe the onions, dig garden sass and mow the grass until my hands had bunions.

In later days I used to raise my eyes to summits splendid. “I’ll hold,” I’d swear, “the White House chair, before my life is ended.” The years rolled on and dreams are gone, with all their gorgeous sallies, and in my town I’m holding down a job inspecting alleys.

Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from heights to depths abysmal; the dream of hope is golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many dreams, so many schemes, upon the hard-rock shiver! We think we’ll eat some sirloin meat, and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine on duck and wine, with garlands hanging o’er us, but when some dub calls us to grub, stewed prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends, though dreaming ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow, build airy schemes! Without your dreams, this life would be all sorrow.

CHRISTMAS MUSINGS

One winter night—how long ago it seems!—I lay me down to bask in pleasant dreams. My sock was hung, hard by the quilting frame, where Santa Claus must see it when he came. I’d been assured by elders, good and wise, that he would come when I had closed my eyes; along the roofs he’d drive his team and sleigh, and down the chimney make his sooty way. And much I wondered, as I drowsy grew, how he would pass the elbows in the flue.

The morning came, the Christmas bells rang loud, I heard the singing of a joyous crowd, and in my sock that blessed day I found a gift that made my head whirl round and round. A pair of skates, whose runners shone like glass, whose upper parts were rich with steel and brass! A pair of skates that would the gods suffice, if ever gods go scooting o’er the ice! All through the day I held them in my arms and nursed them close, nor wearied of their charms. I did not envy then the king his crown, the knight his charger, or the mayor his town. I scaled the heights of rapture and delight—I had new skates, oh, rare and wondrous sight!

’Twas long ago, and they who loved me then are in their graves, the wise old dames and men. Since that far day when rang the morning chimes, the Christmas bells have rung full forty times; the winter snow is on my heart and hair, and old beliefs have vanished in thin air. No more I wait to hear old Santa’s team, as drowsily I drift into a dream. Age has no myths, no legends, no beliefs, but only facts, and facts are mostly griefs.

I’ve prospered well, I’ve earned a goodly store, since that bright morning in the time of yore. My home is filled with rare and costly things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the floor.

The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale, but I am old, and life is flat and stale. I’d give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such as I knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went and showed my youthful mates my Christmas gift—a pair of shining skates! For those cheap skates I’d give my motor cars, my works of art, my Cuba-made cigars, my stocks and bonds, my hunters and my hounds, my stately mansion and my terraced grounds, if, having them, I once again might know the joy I knew so long, so long ago!

THE WAY OF A MAN

BEFORE MARRIAGE

He carried flowers and diamond rings to please that dazzling belle, and caramels and other things that damsels love so well. He’d sit for hours upon a chair and hold her on his knees; he blew his money here and there, as though it grew on trees. “If I had half what you are worth,” he used to say, “my sweet, I’d put a shawlstrap round the earth and lay it at your feet.”

He had no other thought, it seemed, than just to cheer her heart; and everything of which she dreamed, he purchased in the mart.

“When we are spliced,” he used to say, “you’ll have all you desire—a gold mine or a load of hay, a dachshund or a lyre. My one great aim will be to make your life a thing of joy, so haste and to the altar take your little Clarence boy.”

And so she thought she drew a peach when they were wed in June. Alas! how oft for plums we reach, and only get a prune!

AFTER MARRIAGE

“And so you want another hat?” he thundered to his frau. “Just tell me what is wrong with that—the one you’re wearing now! No wonder that I have the blues, the way the money goes; last week you blew yourself for shoes, next week you’ll want new clothes!

“I wish you were like other wives and would like them behave; it is the object of their lives to help their husbands save. All day I’m in the business fight and strain my heart and soul, and when I journey home at night, you touch me for my roll. You want a twenty-dollar hat, to hold your topknot down, or else a new Angora cat, a lapdog, or a gown. You lie awake at night and think of things you’d like to buy, and when I draw a little chink, you surely make it fly.

“With such a wife as you, I say, a husband has no chance; you pull his starboard limb by day, by night you rob his pants.

“My sainted mother, when she dwelt in this sad vale of tears, had one old lid of cloth or felt, she wore for thirty years. She helped my father all the time, she pickled every bone, and if she had to blow a dime, it made her weep and moan.

“The hat you wear is good as new; ’twill do another year. So don’t stand round, the rag to chew—I’m busy now, my dear.”

THE TWO SALESMEN

Two salesmen went to work for Jones, who deals in basswood trunks; each drew per week eleven bones, eleven big round plunks. “It isn’t much,” said Jones, “but then, do well, and you’ll get more; I’d like to have some high-priced men around this blamed old store. You’ll find I’m always glad to pay as much as you are worth, so let your curves from day to day astonish all the earth.”

Then Salesman Number One got down and buckled to his work; and people soon, throughout the town, were talking of that clerk. He was so full of snap and vim, so cheerful and serene, that people liked to deal with him, and hand him good long green. In busy times he’d stay at night to straighten things around, and never show a sign of spite, or raise a doleful sound. He never feared that he would work a half an hour too long, but he those basswood trunks would jerk with cheerful smile and song.

And ever and anon Brer Jones would say: “You’re good as wheat! I raise your stipend seven bones, and soon I will repeat!” And now that Salesman Number One is manager they say; each week he draws a bunch of mon big as a load of hay.

But Salesman Number Two was sore because his pay was small; he sighed, “The owner of this store has seven kinds of gall. He ought to pay me eighteen bucks, and more as I advance. He ought to treat me white—but shucks! I see my name is Pance.”

Determined to do just enough to earn his meager pay, he watched the clock, and cut up rough if late he had to stay. He saw that other salesman climb, the man of smiles and songs; but still he fooled away his time, and brooded o’er his wrongs.

He’s still employed at Jones’ store, but not, alas! as clerk; he cleans the windows, sweeps the floor, and does the greasy work. He sees young fellows make their start and prosper and advance, and sadly sighs, with breaking heart, I never had a chance!

And thousands raise that same old wail throughout this busy land; you hear that gurgle, false and stale, wherever failures stand. The men who never had a chance are scarce as chickens’ teeth, and chaps who simply won’t advance must wear the goose-egg wreath.

THE PRODIGAL SON

“At last I’m wise, I will arise, and seek my father’s shack;” thus muttered low the ancient bo, and then he hit the track. From dwellings rude he’d oft been shooed, been chased by farmers’ dogs; this poor old scout, all down and out, had herded with the hogs. His heart was wrong; it took him long to recognize the truth, that there’s a glad and smiling dad for each repentant youth. “I will arise, doggone my eyes,” the prodigal observed, “and try to strike the old straight pike from which I idly swerved.” The father saw, while baling straw, the truant, sore and lamed; he whooped with joy; “my swaybacked boy, you’re welcome!” he exclaimed. Midst glee and mirth two dollars’ worth of fireworks then were burned; “we’ll kill a cow,” cried father, “now that Reuben has returned!” His sisters sang, the farmhouse rang with glee till rafters split, his mother sighed with hope and pride, his granny had a fit. And it’s today the same old way, the lamp doth nightly burn, to guide you home, O, boys who roam, if you will but return.

HOSPITALITY

I HATE to eat at a friend’s abode—he makes me carry too big a load. He keeps close tab, and he has a fit, if I show a sign that I’d like to quit. “You do not eat as a host could wish—pray, try some more of the deviled fish. Do put some vinegar on your greens, and take some more of the boneless beans, and have a slice of the rich, red beet, and here’s a chunk of the potted meat. We’ll think our cooking has failed to please, if you don’t eat more of the Lima peas, of the stringless squash and the graham rolls, and the doughnuts crisp, with their large round holes. You are no good with the forks and spoons—do try a dish of our home grown prunes!” I eat and eat, at my friend’s behest, till the buttons fly from my creaking vest. I stagger home when the meal is o’er, and nightmares come when I sleep and snore; and long thereafter my stomach wails, as though I’d swallowed a keg of nails. Be wise, be kind to the cherished guest, and let him quit when he wants to rest! Don’t make him eat through the bill of fare, when you see he’s full of a dumb despair!

HON. CROESUS EXPLAINS

Oh, yes, I own a mill or two where little children toil; but why this foolish how-de-do, this uproar and turmoil? You say these children are but slaves, who, through the age-long day, must work in dark and noisome caves to earn a pauper’s pay? You hold me up to public scorn as one who’s steeped in sin; and yet I feel that I adorn the world I’m living in.

_But yesterday I wrote two checks for twenty-seven plunks to build a Home for Human Wrecks and buy them horsehair trunks._

In building up monopolies I’ve crushed a thousand men? I’m tired of that old chestnut; please don’t spring that gag again. I cannot answer for the fate of those by Trade unmade; for men who cannot hit the gait must drop from the parade. If scores of people got the worst of deals I had in line, if by the losers I am cursed, that is no fault of mine. And you, who come with platitude, are but an also ran; I use my money doing good, as much as any man.

_I’m doing good while Virtue rants and of my conduct moans; for a Retreat for Maiden Aunts I just gave twenty bones._

I hold too cheap employees’ lives, you cry in tones intense; I’m making widows of their wives, to keep down my expense. I will not buy a fire escape, or lifeguards now in style, and so the orphan’s wearing crape upon his Sunday tile. I know just what my trade will stand before it bankrupt falls, and so I can’t equip each hand with costly folderols. There is no sentiment in trade, let that be understood; but when my work aside is laid, my joy’s in doing good.

_Today I coughed up seven bucks to Ladies of the Grail, who wish to furnish roasted ducks to suffragists in jail._

You say I violate all laws and laugh the courts to scorn, and war on every worthy cause as soon as it is born? You can’t admit my moral health—you wouldn’t if you could; I spend my days in gaining wealth, my nights in doing good.

_And while the hostile critic roars, I’m giving every day; I’m sending nice pink pinafores to heathen in Cathay._

MAÑANA

THE weeds in the garden are growing, while I’m sitting here in the shade; I know that I ought to be hoeing and doing some things with a spade. I know that I shouldn’t be shirking in pleasant, arboreal nooks; I know that I ought to be working like good little boys in the books. They tell me that idling brings sorrow, and doubtless they tell me the truth; I’ll tackle that garden tomorrow—today I’ve a yarn by Old Sleuth!

The fence, so my mother reminds me, needs fixing the worst kind of way! So it does; but, alas! how it grinds me to wrestle with fence boards today! I ought to do stunts with a hammer, and cut a wide swath with a saw, and raise an industrial clamor out there at the fence by the draw. The punishing fires of Gomorrah on idlers, ma says, will rain down; I’ll fix up that blamed fence tomorrow—today there’s a circus in town!

I ought to be whacking up kindling, says ma, as she fools with the churn; the pile in the woodshed is dwindling, and soon there’ll be nothing to burn. There’s Laura, my sister, as busy as any old bee that you know, while all my employments are dizzy, productive of nothing but woe. I’ll show I’m as eager as Laura to make in the sunshine my hay! I’ll split up some kindling tomorrow—I planned to go fishing today!

I’ve made up my mind to quit fooling and do all the chores round the shack. Just wait till you see me a-tooling the cow to the pasture and back! I’ll show that I’m willing and able! I’ll weed out the cucumber vines, I’ll gather the eggs ’neath the stable, and curry the horse till he shines! A leaf from ma’s book I shall borrow and labor away till I fall! I’ll surely get busy tomorrow—today there’s a game of baseball!

SHOVELING COAL

SHOVELING coal, shoveling coal, into the furnace’s crater-like hole! Thus goes the coin we so wearily earn, into the furnace to sizzle and burn; thus it’s converted to ashes and smoke, and we keep shoveling, weeping, and broke. Oh, it’s a labor that tortures the soul, shoveling coal, shoveling coal! “The house,” says the wife, “is as cold as a barn,” so I must emigrate, muttering “darn,” down to the furnace, the which I must feed; it is a glutton, a demon of greed! Into its cavern I throw a large load—there goes the money I got for an ode! There goes the check that I got for a pome, boosting the joys of an evening at home! There goes the price of full many a scroll, shoveling coal, shoveling coal! Things that I need I’m not able to buy, I have shut down on the cake and the pie; most of my jewels are lying in soak, gone is the money for ashes and smoke; all I can earn, all the long winter through, goes in the furnace and then up the flue. Still says the frau, “It’s as cold as a floe, up in the Arctic where polar bears grow.” So all my song is of sorrow and dole, shoveling coal, shoveling coal!

THE DIFFERENCE