ere trying to sell.

But about all that Barstow could make of the matter was that Shelby had
been in much such case as his own. He had been hungry for human
gratitude, and had not realized that it is won rather by accepting than
by bestowing gifts.

Barstow sat and smoked glumly while the committee clattered. He hardly
heard what they were at such pains to emphasize. He was musing upon a
philosophy of his father's:

"There's an old saying, 'Never look a gift horse in the mouth.' But
sayings and doings are far apart. If you can manage to sell a man a
horse he'll make the best of the worst bargain; he'll nurse the nag and
feed him and drive him easy and brag about his faults. He'll overlook
everything from spavin to bots; he'll learn to think that a hamstrung
hind leg is the poetry of motion. But a gift horse--Lord love you! If
you give a man a horse he'll look him in the mouth and everywhere else.
The whole family will take turns with a microscope. They'll kick because
he isn't run by electricity, and if he's an Arabian they'll roast him
because he holds his tail so high. If you want folks to appreciate
anything don't give it to 'em; make 'em work for it and pay for
it--double if you can."

* * * * *

Shelby had mixed poetry with business, had given something for nothing;
had paid the penalty.

THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME

I

The old road came pouring down from the wooded hills to the westward,
flowed round the foot of other hills, skirting a meadow and a pond, and
then went on easterly about its business. Almost overhanging the road,
like a mill jutting upon its journeyman stream, was an aged house. Still
older were the two lofty oaks standing mid-meadow and imaged again in
the pond. Younger than oaks or house or road, yet as old as Scripture
allots, was the man who stalked across the porch and slumped into a
chair. He always slumped into a chair, for his muscles still remembered
the days when he had sat only when he was worn out. Younger than oaks,
house, road, or man, yet older than a woman wants to be, was the woman
in the garden.

"What you doin', Maw?" the man called across the rail, though he could
see perfectly well.

"Just putterin' 'round in the garden. What you been doin', Paw?"

"Just putterin' 'round the barn. Better come in out the hot sun and rest
your old back."

Evidently the idea appealed to her, for the sunbonnet overhanging the
meek potato-flowers like