m the table. But when I went after her and asked
her what was the matter, she stopped crying and was mad in a minute all
the way through. Called me a heartless, cruel cannibal. That seemed to
relieve her so that she got over her mad and began to cry again. Begged
me to take Toby out of pickle and to bury him in the garden. I reasoned
with her, and in the end I made her see that any obsequies for Toby,
with pork at eight cents a pound, would be a pretty expensive funeral
for us. But first and last she had managed to take my appetite away so
that I didn't want any roast pork for dinner or cold pork for supper.
That night I took what was left of Toby to a store keeper at the
Crossing, who I knew would be able to gaze on his hams without bursting
into tears, and got a pretty fair price for him.

I simply mention Toby in passing, as an example of why I believe women
weren't cut out for business--at least for the pork-packing business.
I've had dealings with a good many of them, first and last, and it's
been my experience that when they've got a weak case they add their sex
to it and win, and that when they've got a strong case they subtract
their sex from it and deal with you harder than a man. They're simply
bound to win either way, and I don't like to play a game where I haven't
any show. When a clerk makes a fool break, I don't want to beg his
pardon for calling his attention to it, and I don't want him to blush
and tremble and leak a little brine into a fancy pocket handkerchief.

A little change is a mighty soothing thing, and I like a woman's ways
too much at home to care very much for them at the office. Instead of
hiring women, I try to hire their husbands, and then I usually have them
both working for me. There's nothing like a woman at home to spur on a
man at the office.

A married man is worth more salary than a single one, because his wife
makes him worth more. He's apt to go to bed a little sooner and to get
up a little earlier; to go a little steadier and to work a little harder
than the fellow who's got to amuse a different girl every night, and
can't stay at home to do it. That's why I'm going to raise your salary
to seventy-five dollars a week the day you marry Helen, and that's why
I'm going to quit writing these letters--I'm simply going to turn you
over to her and let her keep you in order. I bet she'll do a better job
than I have.

Your affectionate father,