Part 3

All Spring it rained to beat the band, and o’er the saturated land, the water stood in pools; old Pluvius, who runs the rain, it seemed, had water on the brain, and busted all the rules.

The farmers had to sail in boats when they went forth to feed their shotes, their ostriches and cows, and when they went to sow their beans they had to go in submarines, they couldn’t use their plows.

And in the cities things were worse, and gloomy as a country hearse was nearly every face; men stood around in dripping crowds, and viewed the stretch of leaking clouds, and called them a disgrace.

Contractors, when they called on Hoar, who runs the corner lumber store, would make an awful fuss; “this is the blinkest, blankest Spring! We cannot do a doggone thing! It’s getting wuss and wuss! It keeps on raining all day long, the mud goes through to old Hong Kong, it will not dry till fall; unless the gods give us a show, out to the poorfarm we must go, our families and all!”

But Hoar, the cheerful lumberman, is one who always ties a can to every gloomy thing; his optimism then he voiced, as he wrapped up a big oak joist, and tied it with a string.

“The rain,” he said, “is coming yet, and I admit it’s pretty wet, in fact it’s almost damp; but you should hail it with delight, and shoo your troubles out of sight, and bid your griefs decamp. The ground is soaked clear through, you say, down to the center of Cathay, and that is joyous news; it means good crops for sundry years, so it’s a sin to sprinkle tears, or languish in the blues. The moisture stored in yonder soil will make our divers kettles boil, and bring us coin galore; you’ll have more palaces to build because the air with rain is filled, so please cut out the roar.”

The man who sees the good in things, who chirps around and smiles and sings, and chortles by the year, not only boosts his private trade, but sees the ghosts of others laid--the ghosts of doubt and fear.

PERSONALITY

One dealer cannot understand why people needing planks or sand go past his door, to spend their mon with t’other dealers, Dadd & Son.

His stock is just as good as Dadd’s; he gives as much for patron’s scads; why, then, do people pass his door, and pass him up forevermore? Perhaps he lacks the sort of charm that will all prejudice disarm, that makes his gladsome patrons shout, “I like to deal with that old scout.”

A man may study all the tricks of commerce, trade or politics, may know his biz from A to Zed, and yet still fail to get ahead, if he has not that winning way that makes a new hit every day. One doctor’s good at making friends; from door to door he blithely wends, and fills his patients up with pills, and cheerfully they pay his bills. This doctor’s soon in Easy street; his motor choos along the street, he wears large diamonds on his tie, his life is one long piece of pie.

Another sawbones knows full well all lore the physics books can tell. He studied medicine in Rome, and studied it some more at home. He knows all corners of his game, all ailments of the human frame, and he could cure the hopeless guy that other docs give up to die. But people say, “We’d rather croak than have that sour-faced doctor bloke!”

And thus it is in every line; the man who deals in coal or pine, the man who sells a churn or farm, should have that asset men call “charm.” With that on tap the world goes slick, and people say you are a brick; they buy your hats, they buy your gourds, they buy your beeswax, beans or boards. And if you lack it they will trot to one whose manner hits the spot.

PLANTING A TREE

On Arbor Day I took a spade, and then a large round hole I made, and planted there a tree; and in that tree, in coming days, the birds will sing their roundelays; and twitter in their glee.

I am an ancient also-ran; I am an old and feeble man, I soon must hit the flume; but it’s a pleasant thing to know that there will be that tree to show, when I am in the tomb. Beneath its boughs the kids will play, and veterans all bent and gray will in its shade recline; and peradventure one will sigh, “I well recall the dippy guy, who planted here this pine. The swath he cut was very small, while he was on this mundane ball, but when life neared its end, this tree he planted with his spade, and here we’re resting in its shade, and bless him as a friend.”

And as the long, slow years go by, perchance that stately tree will die; there’s death for all, it seems, and men, to earn the needed plunk, will separate its mighty trunk, and fashion boards and beams.

And one who plans to build a shack, will to the lumber dealer track, and purchase beam and board; and carpenters will straightway go, and build as fine a bungalow as mister can afford. The walls and roof of my good tree, will shelter human grief and glee, for, maybe, untold years; will echo to both sob and song, the laughter of the bridal throng, the plash of old wives’ tears.

I like to speculate this way; but now my boy comes in to say, ere he departs for school, “That tree you planted by the fence now looks like twenty-seven cents--it’s dead as Cæsar’s mule.”

THE SHOPPERS

When people do their Christmas shopping, and blow in all their hard-earned ore, to keep the Christmas spirit popping, they don’t call at the lumber store.

You do not see the Christmas spieler, with purse ajar and eyes a-gleam, say to the cheerful lumber dealer, “Just wrap me up that ten-foot beam! I have an aunt, Priscilla Hocking, to whom I’d send a present small; that beam will surely fit her stocking like the paper on the wall.”

You do not hear the shopper saying, “I want a gift for Uncle Hank, so let me see you busy weighing about ten yards of basswood plank.”

No shoppers tighten their surcingles in lumber yards, at Christmas time, and buy their girls a lot of shingles, or sundry pecks of unslacked lime.

A man might think the lumber dealer was off the map, and in the shade, without a tendril or a feeler upon the blooming Christmas trade. But all the year they’re building houses, with stuff the lumber dealer sells, in which the Christmas crowd carouses, and good old Santa whoops and yells. Beneath yon roof there’s joyous laughter, that indicates good will to men; and every two-by-four and rafter came from the lumber dealer’s den. The walls on which you see the holly, were furnished by the lumber man, who is, like Claus, serene and jolly, and does his stunt the best he can. The door at which the guest is greeted with kindness which should hit him hard, and everything that’s nailed or cleated, comes from the modest lumber yard.

You cannot have a Christmas frolic, with joy and laughter in the air, and nuts and candies--causing colic--but that the lumber man is there.

THE NEW YEAR

The old year’s gone where dead years go, the New Year comes across the snow, and chortles at the door; it seems to say, “Behold in me the smoothest year you’ll ever see--none like me came before!”

But years, my friends, are much the same; they stay a while and play their game, and then they disappear; they’re modeled on the same old plan; success depends on Mr. Man, and not on any year. The finest year that ever grew will bring no rich rewards to you, if you’re a shiftless chap; the poorest year that they can send will see you prosper without end, if you have vim and snap.

We shouldn’t wait for friendly gods to come and multiply our wads, or fetch us wood to burn; the new year isn’t apt to bring to you or me a doggone thing that we don’t go and earn. We shouldn’t dream when New Year comes, or sit around and twirl our thumbs, and wish ourselves good cheer; ’twere better far to count our breaks and figure up the bad mistakes that cost us much last year.

“The lumber man across the way is doing business every day, while I sit here and mope; there is some reason, sure, for that; I’ll find it, too, or eat my hat,” thus muses David Dope. And so he rustles ’round to find why trade is falling far behind; that’s better far, old scout, than quoting pretty New Year rhymes and harking to the clanging chimes that ring the old year out. “You bet,” says David, and he grins, “this year I’ll guard against the sins that put me in the hole; I’m bound this year will treat me well, so watch your Uncle David sell his lumber, lime and coal.”

And thus the year is good or bad according to the sort of lad who has it by the horns; if you are bound to win, you will; if not, the year your hopes will kill, and spoil your choicest corns.

Transcriber’s Notes

In a few cases, obvious errors in punctuation have been fixed.