quart of gherkins--don't begin to tell him
all about your woes; you will only bore him, laying griefs before him,
and he'll be disgusted when he ups and goes. Show him that you're
cheerful, for the merchant tearful always jars his patrons, always
makes them groan; they don't want to hearken to the ills that darken
over you for they have troubles of their own.

Here comes Mrs. Twutter for three yards of butter--let her see you
smiling, let her find you gay; be as bright and chipper as a new tin
dipper, show you're optimistic, in the good old way! If you mope and
mumble this good dame will tumble, and she'll tell her neighbors that
your head is sore; no one likes a dealer who's a dismal squealer, so
your friends will toddle to some other store. When the luck seems
balky, and the trade is rocky, that's the time to whistle, that's the
time to grin! Time to make a showing that your trade is growing, time
to show your grit and rustle round like sin.

Here comes Mr. Bunyan for a shredded onion, bullion in his trousers,
checkbook in his coat; give him no suspicion that the dull condition in
the world of commerce has destroyed your goat!

LADIES AND GENTS

When I was younger kids were kids, in Kansas or in Cadiz; now all the
boys are gentlemen, and all the girls are ladies. Where are the kids
who climbed the trees, the tousled young carousers, who got their faces
black with dirt, and tore their little trousers? Where are the lads
who scrapped by rounds, while other lads kept tallies? The maids who
made their pies of mud, and danced in dirty alleys? They're making
calf-love somewhere now, exchanging cards and kisses, they're all fixed
up in Sunday togs, and they are Sirs and Misses. Real kids have
vanished from the world--which fact is surely hades; and all the boys
are gentlemen, and all the girls are ladies.

AUTUMN JOYS

The summer days have gone their ways, to join the days of summers
olden; the eager air is making bare the trees, the leaves are red and
golden; the flowers that bloomed are now entombed, the morn is chill,
the night is dreary; and I confront the same old stunt that all my life
has made me weary. Hard by yon grove our heating stove is standing red
and fierce and rusty; and I must black its front and back, and get
myself all scratched and dusty. And I must pack it on my back, about a
mile, up to our shanty, and work with wire and pipes and fire, the
while I quote warm things from