Walt Mason

“ If you have milked an old red cow, humped o’er a big six-gallon pail, and had her swat you on the brow with seven feet of burry tail, you’ll know the milkman ought to get a plunk for every pint he sells; he earns his pay in blood and sweat, and sorrow in his bosom dwells. As through the city streets he goes, he has to sound his brazen gong, and people wake up from their doze, and curse him as he goes along. He has to stagger through the snow when others stay at home and snore; and through the rain he has to go, to take the cow-juice to your door. ”

“ Christmas is the happy season! Though the weather may be freezin’, human hearts are thawed! Here we see the ancient codger sporting like an artful dodger with the laughing kids; here we see the haughty chappie smiling broadly and as happy as the katydids. Every one has shed his sorrow, dropped his burden till tomorrow, dropped the world and care; Christmas is no time for sadness—all the world is full of gladness, each should have his share.
Therefore, if you deal in lumber, let your business rest and slumber, till the day is o’er; think no more of lath and plaster ”

“ This is the day of laughter, wherein no shadows fall; and 'neath the cottage rafter, and in the mullioned hall, are happy cries ascending, and songs of joy and peace; why should they have an ending? Why should the music cease? The music! When we hear it, we old men softly sigh; "Could but the Christmas spirit live on, and never die!"
This is the day of giving, and giving with a smile makes this gray life we're living seem doubly worth the while. When giving we're forgetting the counting-room and mart, and all the work-day fretting—and this improves the heart ”

“ You hire some men to do your chores, and then you cease to wonder. Alas, he is so hard to find—he takes so much pursuing—the worker who will keep his mind on what he may be doing. I hire a man to saw some sticks, to keep the fire a-going, and he discusses politics, in language smooth and flowing; the saw grows rusty while he stands, the welkin shrinks and totters, as he, with swinging jaws and hands, denounces Wall Street plotters. When I go home, as dusk grows dense, I hear his windy rages, and kick him sadly through the fence, when I have paid his wages. ”

“ The orator shrieks and clamors, and kicks up a lot of dust, and larrups and whacks and hammers the weary old sinful Trust; the congressman chirps and chatters, pursuing his dream of fame; but there's only one thing that matters, and that is the baseball game. The pessimist rails and wrangles, and takes up a lot of room and tells, in a voice that jangles, his view of the nation's doom; we shy at his why and wherefore, and balk at his theories lame; for there's only one thing we care for, and that is the baseball game. ”

“ And at the close of life, when you have said good-bye to cousin, aunt and wife, and all the children nigh, you’ll face the river cold that flows to islands blest, with courage high and bold, if you have done your best. No craven fears you’ll know, no terrors fierce and sharp, but like a prince you’ll go, to draw your crown and harp. So, then, whate’er the field in which you do your stunt, whatever tool you wield to earn your share of blunt, toil on with eager zest, nor falter in that plan; the one who does his best is God’s blue-ribbon man. ”

“ Why should men who deal in lumber make no bid for larger trade? Why should they sit ’round and slumber, slumber sweetly in the shade? If an ad will bring new patrons to the gas works or the bank, if it sells new gowns to matrons, why won’t it sell a plank? If an ad will bring new buyers to the corner ginseng store, to the man who deals in plyers, why won’t it sell a door?
In our town there is a dealer, selling lumber all the year, and he is the boss appealer to the public’s grateful ear. ”

“ If you have helped some pilgrim climb from darkness and despair, that action, in your twilight time, will ease your weight of care. The triumphs of your business day, by stealth or sharpness gained, will seem, when you are tired and gray, to leave your record stained. Ah, comrade, in the dusk of life, when you have ceased your grind, when all your strategy and strife are left for aye behind, when you await the curtain’s fall, the setting of the sun, how you will struggle to recall the good that you have done! ”

“ The talking graft is all in vain, and loafers give the world a pain. The fans who watch the game of life despise the sluggard in the strife. They'll have but little use for you, who tell what you intend to do, and hand out promises galore, but, somehow, never seem to score. No matter what your stunt may be, in this the country of the free, you'll find that loafing never pays; cut out the flossy grand stand plays; put in your hardest licks and whacks, and get right down to Old Brass Tacks, and, undismayed by bruise or fall, go right ahead—in short, play ball! ”

“ If I were selling battle-axes, I’d see my own the best in town, as slick and clean and smooth as wax is, a thing of fair and wide renown.
One lumber man is always telling what kind of homes the folks should build, and he lives in a rocky dwelling, with bargain counter fixtures filled. And men who listen to his spieling remark, “Why don’t you build, yourself? Your home is punk, from floor to ceiling, from kitchen sink to pantry shelf.”
The lumber man, more than all others, should show his faith in what he sells, should demonstrate, to men and brothers, that his own home is wearing bells. ”

“ It’s on the wing the livelong day, from rise to set of sun, and when at eve it hits the hay, no chore is left undone. And when the bumblers are possessed of honey by the pound, bad boys come up and swat their nest, and knock it to the ground. The store they gathered day by day has vanished in a breath, and so the bees exclaim, “Foul play!” and sting themselves to death. There is no sense in making work a gospel and a creed, in thinking every hour will spoil that knows no useful deed. ”

“ And so I beam around my place, and wear a smile that splits my face, and gather in the shining dime—trade's getting better all the time!"
Though days be dark and trade be tough, it's always well to make a bluff, to face the world with cheerful eye, as though the goose were hanging high. No merchant ever made a friend by dire complainings without end. And people never seek a store to hear a grouchy merchant roar; they'll patronize the wiser gent who doesn't air his discontent. ”

“ The floors on which we spend our lives, and train our kids, and beat our wives, are surely handsome things; be they of color light or dark, we proudly view them and remark, “They’re good enough for kings.”
Your mansion might have jasper walls, the finest painting in its halls that artists can produce, and onyx stairs and marble doors, but if it had no modern floors ’twould be a poor excuse.
Good hardwood floors make life a pome; they beautify your happy home as nothing else can do; your lumber dealer has the best; the years have given it the test that means so much to you. ”

“ My home is filled with rare and costly things, and every day some modern comfort brings; I’ve motor cars and also speedy steeds, and goods to meet all human wants or needs; and at the bank, when I step in the door, the money changers bow down to the floor.
The bells of Christmas clamor in the gale, but I am old, and life is flat and stale. I’d give my hoard for just one thrill of joy, such as I knew when, as a little boy, I proudly went and showed my youthful mates my Christmas gift—a pair of shining skates! ”

“ There are no costly screens; no relics of dead queens; but on the stand, close to your hand, cheap books and magazines. There's no Egyptian crock, or painted jabberwock, but by the wall there stands a tall and loud six-dollar clock. Old Tiller can't impart much lore concerning art, or tell the price of virtu nice until he breaks your heart. But in his home abide those joys which seem denied to stately halls upon whose walls are works of pomp and pride. That pomp which smothers joy, and chills a girl or boy, may have and hold the hue of gold, but it has base alloy. ”

“ And always shun the festive skirt who’ll never miss a chance to flirt with men, at any cost; she may seem sweet and charming now, but, as your own and only frau, she’s sure to be a frost. And when you see a woman near, who hankers for a high career, and combs her hair back straight, who says she’s wedded to her art, whose brow is high, whose tongue is tart—oh, Clarence, pull your freight! Select a damsel safe and sane, who has no folly in her brain, who wants to build a home; if you can win that sort of bride, peace shall with you and yours abide, and crown your old bald dome. ”

“ I used to camp right where we stand, among these motor cars, and silence brooded o'er the land, as I lay 'neath the stars, save when the drowsy cattle lowed, or when a broncho neighed; and now you have an asphalt road, and palaces of trade! We hear the clamor of the host on every wind that blows, when people take the time to boast of how their city grows! I do not doubt that you will rise to greater heights of fame, and maybe paint across the skies your city's lustrous name! ”

“ 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. ”

“ Thus goes the world; a man is hurled from heights to depths abysmal; the dream of hope is golden dope, but waking up is dismal. So many dreams, so many schemes, upon the hard-rock shiver! We think we’ll eat some sirloin meat, and have to dine on liver. We think we’ll dine on duck and wine, with garlands hanging o’er us, but when some dub calls us to grub, stewed prunes are set before us. And yet, my friends, though dreaming ends in dark-blue taste tomorrow, build airy schemes! Without your dreams, this life would be all sorrow. ”

“ Old Gaffer Goodworth, whom you know, was born a hundred years ago, and states the fact with mirth; he’s rather proud that he has hung around so long while old and young were falling off the earth. But when his boastful fit is gone, a sadness comes his face upon, that speaks of utter woe; he sits and broods and dreams again of vanished days, of long dead men, his friends of long ago. There is no loneliness so dread as that of one who mourns his dead in white and wintry age, who, when the lights extinguished are, the other players scattered far, still lingers on the stage. ”