Part 5

WHEN I was as poor as Job, and monkeyed around the globe in indolent vagrant style, my life was a joyous thing, devoid of a smart or sting, and everything seemed to smile. I hadn’t a bundle then; I herded with homeless men, and padded the highway dust; and care was a thing unknown, as scarce as the silver bone, in days of the wanderlust. But now I am settled down, a prop to this growing town, respectable till it hurts; and I have a bundle fat, and I have a stovepipe hat, and all kinds of scrambled shirts. I puff at a rich cigar, and ride in a motor car, and I have a spacious lawn; and diamonds upon me shine; my credit is simply fine, the newspapers call me Hon. But Worry is always near, a-whispering in my ear—I’m tired of her morbid talks: “Suppose that the bank should bust in which you have placed your dust, how then would you feel, Old Sox? Suppose that the cyclones swat the farms you have lately bought and blow them clear off the map? Suppose that your mills should fail, and you were locked up in jail, how then would you feel, old chap?” Dame Worry is always there; she’s whitened my scanty hair, she’s cankered my weary breast; she never goes far away; she tortures me all the day and ruins my nightly rest. And often at night I sigh for a couch ’neath the open sky and the long white road again; for the march through the sifting dust, and the lure of the wanderlust and the camp of the homeless men.

IMMORTAL SANTA

I MET a little maid who cried, as though her heart would break; I asked her why, and she replied, “Oh, Santa is a fake! My teacher says there never was a being by that name, and here I mourn for Santa Claus, and all the Christmas game.”

“Cheer up, my little girl,” I said, “for weeping is a crime; I’ll go and punch that teacher’s head as soon as I have time. Old Santa lives, the good old boy, his race is not yet run; and he will bring the children joy, as he has always done. The pedagogues have grown too smart, and must take in their sails, if they would break a maiden’s heart by telling phony tales.”

The young one, anxious to believe that Santa’s still on earth, looked up and smiled and ceased to grieve, and chortled in her mirth. I have no use for folks so wise that legend makes them sad, who say those stories are but lies which make the children glad. For Santa lives, and that’s the truth; and he will always live, while there is such a thing as Youth to bless the hands that give.

You may not hear his reindeer’s hoofs go tinkling o’er the snow; you may not see him climbing roofs to reach the socks below; and down the sooty chimney-hole you may not see him slide—for that would grieve the kindest soul, and scar the toughest hide—but still he goes his rounds and tries to make the children gay, and there is laughter in his eyes, on every Christmas Day.

You’re Santa Claus, and so am I, and so is every dad, who says at Christmas time, “I’ll try to make the young hearts glad!” All other men may lay them down and go to rest some day; the homes they builded, and their town may crumble in decay; and governments may rise and fall, and dynasties may lapse, and still, triumphant over all, that jolliest of chaps will journey through the snow and storm, beneath the midnight sky; while souls are true and hearts are warm, old Santa shall not die.

THE MEN BEHIND

THE firm of Jingleson & Jams, which manufactured wooden hams, has closed its doors, and in the mill, the wheels and shafting all stand still.

This mighty business was upbuilt by Humper, Hooperman & Hilt, who kept the factory on the go and made all kinds of fancy dough. Their products went to every mart, and cheered the retail merchant’s heart, and made consumers warble psalms, and ask for more of those elm hams. These owners hired the ablest men that could be got for love or yen; throughout the mill fine workmen wrought; their every motion hit the spot; and expert foremen snooped around, and if some shabby work they found, the riot act they’d promptly speak, in Latin, Choctaw, Dutch and Greek.

The finest salesmen in the land were selling hams to beat the band. Old Humper said, “No ten-cent skate can earn enough to pay the freight; cheap men are evermore a frost—they’re dear, no matter what they cost. We want the ablest men that grow—no other kind will have a show.” And so these owners gathered kale until the game seemed old and stale, then sold their mill and stock of hams to Messrs. Jingleson & Jams.

These were a pair of cautious gents, who had a reverence for cents. They looked around, with eager eyes, for chances to economize. They had the willies when they gazed upon the payroll—they were dazed! “Great whiskers!” Jingleson exclaimed, “this wilful waste makes me ashamed! This salesman, Jasper Jimpson Jones, draws, every month, two hundred bones! Why I can hire F. Flimson Flatt, who’ll work I know, for half of that!”

“And by old Pharaoh’s sacred rams,” remarked his partner, Peter Jams, “it’s that way all along the list; old Humper must be crazed, I wist! We’ll cut these salaries in two—that is the first thing we must do!”

And so the high-priced expert men were told to go, nor come again; and soon the shop began to fill with chaps who’d neither brains nor skill. The payroll slumped—which made Jams glad; but so did trade—which made him mad. The product lost its high renown, and merchants turned the salesmen down, and they sent frantic telegrams to weary Jingleson & Jams.

When things begin down hill to slide, they rush, and will not be denied, and so there came slump after slump until the business reached the dump, and poor old Jingleson & Jams are mournful as a pair of clams.

Economy’s the one best bet—but some kinds cost like blitzen, yet!

THE BARD IN THE WOODS

ALONG the forest’s virgin aisles I walk in rapture, miles on miles; at every turn delights unfold, and wondrous vistas I behold. What noble scenes on every hand! I feel my ardent soul expand; I turn my face toward the sky, and to the firmament I cry:

“_The derned mosquitoes—how they bite! The woods would be a pure delight, would lure all men back to the soil, if these blamed brutes were boiled in oil! They come forth buzzing from their dens, and they’re as big as Leghorn hens, and when they bite they raise a lump that makes the victim yell and jump._”

What wondrous voices have the trees when they are rocked by morning breeze! The voices of a thousand lyres, the music of a thousand choirs, the chorus of a thousand spheres are in the noble song one hears! The same sad music Adam heard when through the Eden groves he stirred; and ever since the primal birth, through all the ages of the earth, the trees have whispered, chanted, sung, in their soft, untranslated tongue. And, moved to tears, I cry aloud, far from the sordid madding crowd:

“_Doggone these measly, red-backed ants! They will keep climbing up my pants! The woods will soon be shy of guests unless the ants and kindred pests abolished are by force of law; they’ve chewed me up till I am raw._”

Here in these sylvan solitudes, unfettered Nature sweetly broods; she’d clasp her offspring to her breast, and give her weary children rest, and say to them, “No longer weep, but on your mother’s bosom sleep.” Here mighty thoughts disturb my brain—I try to set them down in vain; with noble songs my soul’s afire—I cannot fit them to my lyre, Elysian views awhile I’ve seen—I cannot tell you what they mean; adown the forest aisles I stray, and face the glowing East, and say:

“_It must have been a bee, by heck! that stung me that time on the neck! It’s time I trotted back to town, and got those swellings doctored down! With bees and ants and wasps and snakes these bosky groves and tangled brakes are most too fierce for urban bard—I rather long for my back yard!_”

VALUES

OLD Hiram Hucksmith makes and sells green wagons with red wheels; and merry as a string of bells in his old age he feels. For over all the countryside his wagons have their fame, and Hiram sees with wholesome pride, the prestige of his name.

He always tells his men: “By jings, my output must be good! Don’t ever use dishonest things—no wormy steel or wood; use nothing but the choicest oak, use silver mounted tacks, and every hub and every spoke must be as sound as wax. I want the men who buy my carts to advertise them well; I do not wish to break the hearts of folks to whom I sell.”

The farmers bought those wagons green, with wheels of sparkling red, and worked them up and down, I ween, and of them often said: “You cannot bust or wear them out, and if you’d break their holt, you’d have to have a waterspout or full-sized thunderbolt. The way they hang together’s strange, they ought to break but won’t, most earthly things decay or change, but these blamed wagons don’t.”

Old Hiram’s heart with rapture thrilled, to hear that sort of stuff; he worked and worked but couldn’t build his wagons fast enough. And now he lives on Easy Street, most honored of all men who toddle down our village street, and then back up again.

Old Jabez Jenkins long has made blue wagons with pink spokes, and once he had a goodly trade among the farmer folks. With pride his bosom did not swell, he knew not to aspire, to get up wagons that would sell—that was his one desire. And so he made his wheels of pine, where rosewood should have been, and counted on the painting fine, to hide the faults within.

And often when this sad old top was toiling in his shed, a customer would seek his shop and deftly punch his head. Wherever Jenkins’ wagons went, disaster with them flew; the tires came off, the axles bent, the kingbolts broke in two. You’d see the farmers standing guard above their ruined loads, and springing language by the yard that fairly scorched the roads.

This Jenkins now is old and worn, his business is decayed; and he can only sit and mourn o’er dizzy breaks he made. Old Hiram’s plan should suit all men who climb Trade’s rugged hill: Give value for the shining yen you put into your till.

STICKING TO IT

I USED to run a beeswax store at Punktown-in-the-Hole, and people asked me o’er and o’er, “Why don’t you deal in coal? The beeswax trade will never pay—you know that it’s a sell; if you take in ten bones a day, you think you’re doing well.”

Thus spake these thoughtful friends of mine; I heard their rigmarole, and straightway quit the beeswax line, and started selling coal. I built up quite a trade in slate, delivered by the pound, and just when I could pay the freight, my friends again came round. “Great Scott!” they cried, “you ought to quit this dark and dirty trade! To clean your face of grime and grit we’d need a hoe and spade! Quit dealing in such dusty wares, and make yourself look slick; lay in a stock of Belgian hares, and you’ll make money quick.”

I bought a thousand Belgian brutes, and watched them beige around, and said: “I’ll fatten these galoots and sell them by the pound, and then I’ll have all kinds of kale, to pleasure to devote; around this blamed old world I’ll sail in my own motor boat.” But when the hares were getting fat, my friends began to hiss: “Great Caesar! Would you look at that! What foolishness is this? Why wear out leg and back and arm pursuing idle fads? You ought to have a ginseng farm, and then you’d nail the scads.”

The scheme to me seemed good and grand; I sold the Belgian brutes, and then I bought a strip of land and planted ginseng roots. I hoped to see them come up strong, and tilled them years and years, until the sheriff came along and took me by the ears. And as he pushed me off to jail, I passed that beeswax store; the owner, loaded down with kale, was standing in the door. “If you had stayed right here,” he said, “you’d now be doing well; you would not by the ears be led toward a loathsome cell. But always to disaster wends the man who has no spine, who always listens to his friends, and thinks their counsel fine.”

“THANKS”

THE lumber man wrapped up some planks, for which I paid a yen, and as I left he murmured, “Thanks! I hope you’ll call again!”

Such little courtesies as this make business worth the while; they fill a customer with bliss and give his mug a smile. Politeness never fails to win, and bring the trade your way; when I have cash I blow it in with dealers blithe and gay.

Of course, in every merchant’s joint, there are a thousand cares, which file his temper to a point, and give his brow gray hairs. And he should have a goat, no doubt, on which to vent his spite; a sawdust dummy, good and stout, should do for that all right. And then, when burdened with his woe, he might a while withdraw, and to the basement gaily go, and smash that dummy’s jaw. And when he’d sprained the dummy’s back, and spoiled its starboard glim, he to his duties would retrack, refreshed and full of vim.

Some outlet for his flowing bile—on this each man depends; but he should always have a smile and “Thank you” for his friends.

When I am needing further planks, to make a chicken pen, I’ll seek the merchant who said, “Thanks! I hope you’ll come again!” I feel that I am welcome there, in that man’s scantling store, and I can use the office chair or sleep upon the floor. His cordial treatment makes me pant to patronize such gents; and I shall wed his maiden aunt and borrow fifty cents.

I’d sing his praises day and night, if singing were allowed; the man consistently polite will always charm the crowd.

THE OLD ALBUM

I LIKE to take the album old, with covers made of plush and gold—or maybe it is brass—and see the pictures of the jays who long have gone their divers ways and come no more, alas!

This picture is of Uncle James, who quit these futile worldly games full twenty years ago; up yonder by the village church, where in his pew he used to perch, he now is lying low. Unheard by him the church bell chimes; the grass has grown a score of times above his sleeping form. For him there is no wage or price, with him the weather cuts no ice, the sunshine or the storm.

Yet here he sits as big as life, as dolled up by his loving wife, “to have his picture took.” Though dead to all the world of men, yea, doubly dead, and dead again, he lives in this old book. His long side whiskers, north and south, stand forth, like mudguards for his mouth, his treasure and his pride. With joy he saw those whiskers sprout, with glee he saw them broaden out his face, already wide. In those sweet days of Auld Lang Syne the men considered whiskers fine and raised them by the peck; a man grew whiskers every place that they would grow upon his face, and more upon his neck. He made his face a garden spot, and he was sad that he could not grow whiskers on his brow; he prized his whiskers more than mon and raised his spinach by the ton—where are those whiskers now?

Oh, ask the ghost of Uncle James, whose whiskers grew on latticed frames—at least, they look that way, as in this picture they appear, this photograph of yesteryear, so faded, dim and gray.

My Uncle James looks sad and worn; he wears a smile, but it’s forlorn, a grin that seems to freeze. And one can hear the artist say—that artist dead and gone his way—“Now, then, look pleasant, please!” My uncle’s eyes seem full of tears. What wonder when, beneath his ears, two prongs are pressing sore? They’re there to hold his head in place, while he presents a smiling face for half an hour or more. The minutes drag—if they’d but rush! The artist stands and whispers, “Hush! Don’t breathe or wink your eyes! Don’t let your smile evaporate, but keep it rigid, firm and straight—in it all virtue lies!”

It is a scene of long ago, when art was long and time was slow, brought back by this old book; there were no anesthetics then, and horror filled the souls of men who “had their pictures took.” Strange thoughts all soulful people hold, when poring o’er an album old, the book of vanished years. The dead ones seem to come again, the queer, old-fashioned dames and men, with prongs beneath their ears!

WAR AND PEACE

THE bugles sound, the prancing chargers neigh, and dauntless men have journeyed forth to slay. Mild farmer lads will wade around in gore and shoot up gents they never saw before. Pale dry goods clerks, amid war’s wild alarms, pursue the foe and hew off legs and arms. The long-haired bards forget their metred sins and walk through carnage clear up to their chins.

“My country calls!” the loyal grocer cries, then stops a bullet with his form and dies. “’Tis glory beckons!” cry the ardent clerks; a bursting shell then hits them in the works. And dark-winged vultures float along the air, and dead are piled like cordwood everywhere. A regiment goes forth with banners gay; a mine explodes, and it is blown away. There is a shower of patriotic blood; some bones are swimming in the crimson mud. Strong, brave young men, who might be shucking corn, thus uselessly are mangled, rent and torn. They call it glory when a fellow falls, his midriff split by whizzing cannon balls; but there’s more glory in a field of hay, where brave men work for fifteen bits a day.

The bugles blow, the soldiers ride away, to gather glory in the mighty fray; their heads thrown back, their martial shoulders squared—what sight with this can ever be compared? And they have dreams of honors to be won, of wreaths of laurel when the war is done. The women watch the soldiers ride away, and to their homes repair to weep and pray.

No bugles sound when back the soldiers come; there is no marching to the beat of drum. There are no chargers, speckled with their foam; but one by one the soldiers straggle home. With empty sleeves, with wooden legs they drill, along the highway, up the village hill. Their heads are gray, but not with weight of years, and all the sorrow of all worlds and spheres is in their eyes; for they have walked with Doom, have seen their country changed into a tomb. And one comes back where twenty went away, and nineteen widows kneel alone and pray.

They call it glory—oh, let glory cease, and give the world once more the boon of peace! I’d rather watch the farmer go afield than see the soldier buckle on his shield! I’d rather hear the reaper’s raucous roar than hear a colonel clamoring for gore! I’d rather watch a hired man milk a cow, and hear him cussing when she kicks his brow, than see a major grind his snickersnee to split a skull and make his country free! I’d rather watch the grocer sell his cheese, his boneless prunes and early winter peas, and feed the people at a modest price, than see a captain whack an ample slice, with sword or claymore, from a warlike foe—for peace is weal, and war is merely woe.

THE CROOKS

THE people who beat you, hornswoggle and cheat you, don’t profit for long from the kale; for folks who are tricky find Nemesis sticky—it never abandons their trail. I’ve often been cheated; the trick’s been repeated so often I cannot keep tab; but ne’er has the duffer who thus made me suffer been much better off for his grab. It pays not to swindle; dishonest rolls dwindle like snow when exposed to the sun; like feathers in Tophet is burned up the profit of cheating, the crooked man’s mon. The people who sting me unknowingly bring me philosophy fresh, by the crate; I don’t get excited—my wrongs will be righted, by Nemesis, Fortune, or Fate. I know that the stingers—they think they are dingers, and gloat o’er the coin they don’t earn—I know they’ll be busted and sick and disgusted, while I still have rubles to burn. I’d rather be hollow with hunger than follow the course that the tricksters pursue; I’d rather be “easy” than do as the breezy and conscienceless gentlemen do. Far better the shilling you’ve earned by the tilling of soil that is harder than bricks, than any old dollar you manage to collar by crooked and devious tricks.

THE TRAMP

HIS hair is long, his breath is strong, his hat is old and battered, his knees are sprung, his nerves unstrung, his clothes are badly tattered, his shoes are worn, his hide’s been torn by bow-wows fierce and snarling; and yet, by heck! this tough old wreck was once some daddy’s darling!

He still must hit the ties and grit. A dismal fate is his’n; for if he stops, the village cops will slam him into prison. Some hayseed judge would make him trudge out where the rock pile’s lying, to labor there, in his despair, till next year’s snows are flying. The women shy when he goes by; with righteous wrath they con him. Men give him kicks and hand him bricks and train their shotguns on him. His legs are sprained, his fetlocks strained, from climbing highways hilly; it’s hard to think this seedy gink was someone’s little Willie!

And yet ’tis so. Once, long ago, some dad of him was bragging, and matrons mild surveyed the child and set their tongues a-wagging. “What lovely eyes!” one woman cries. “They look like strips of heaven!” “And note his hairs!” a dame declares. “I’ve counted six or seven!” “His temper’s sweet,” they all repeat; “he makes no fuss or bother. He has a smile that’s free from guile—he looks just like his father!” Thus women talked as he was rocked to slumber in his cradle; they filled with praise his infant days, poured taffy with a ladle.

And ma and dad, with bosoms glad, planned futures for the creature. “I’ll have my way,” the wife would say; “the child must be a preacher! His tastes are pure, of that I’m sure,” she says, with optimism; “for when he strays around and plays, he grabs the catechism!”

“Ah, well,” says dad, “the lovely lad will reach great heights—I know it. I have the dope that he’ll beat Pope or Byron as a poet.”

To give him toys and bring him joys, the savings bank was burgled; folks cried, “Gee whiz! How cute he is!” whenever baby gurgled.

His feet are bare, his matted hair could not be combed with harrows; his garb is weird, and in his beard are bobolinks and sparrows. You’d never think, to see the gink, that ever he had parents! Can it be so that long ago he was somebody’s Clarence?

THE DOLOROUS WAY

AS a mortal man grows older he has pains in hoof or shoulder, by a thousand aches and wrenches all his weary frame is torn; he has headache and hay fever till he is a stout believer in the theory of the poet that the race was made to mourn. He has gout or rheumatism and he’s prone to pessimism, and he takes a thousand balsams, and the bottles strew the yard; he has grip and influenzy till his soul is in a frenzy, and he longs to end the journey, for this life is beastly hard. And his system’s revolution is Dame Nature’s retribution for the folly of his conduct in the days of long ago; in his anguish nearly fainting he is paying for the painting, for the wassail and the ruffling that his evenings used to know. We may dance and have our inning in our manhood’s bright beginning, but we all must pay the fiddler, pay him soon or pay him late, and a million men are paying for the dancing and the playing, who are charging up their troubles to misfortune or to fate.

LOOKING FORWARD