rich--called us up last summer and suggested that we should go out to
his "little place in the country" for the week-end, we feared the worst.
We realized in a moment that his hired man had quit or had died of
over-exertion, and that he was trying to work us in as a substitute--for
our keep. But we couldn't think of any decent excuse to give, so we
yielded a dismal consent.
"You mustn't expect too much," he warned us, "it's the simple life, you
know--no fol-de-rols, but just good plain farm fare."
Our heart sank at the words. Not that we have ever been so stuck on
fol-de-rols. We don't mind an occasional fol-de-rol--a fol-de-rol for
two, say, with a quart of "extra dry" in a tin pail of ice alongside.
But we have never hankered for them as a steady diet. At the same time
the warning sounded ominous. Plain farm fare!--we could see the platter
of pork and cabbage and the slab of marmoreal pie.
He called for us--or rather, we stood on the street-corner and he picked
us up in a ten-thousand-dollar limousine, lined in grey silk, with a big
bouquet of roses concealing the chauffeur from the gaze of the
occupants.
This cheered us up somewhat, but we had a feeling that our doom was
merely postponed. We had a notion that we were being lured. We had
heard of people who had been made "white slaves" that way. And if a
farm-hand is not a white slave, we would like to know who has any better
right to the title. Not that he is so very white, but....
With the engine purring softly and the cushions heaving voluptuously, we
swiftly glided--or should it be "glid" or "glode?"--out past the last
suburban lot, meaning about thirty miles. It was a beautiful pastoral
region, occupied mostly by golf-clubs and villas. Long rows of peonies
and Canterbury-bells and flowering shrubs were the nearest approach to
farming we could see--these and a few cows of the domestic-pet variety.
Our host was very chatty all the way, and his talk was of the beauties
of the simple life and the general rottenness of civilization as
evidenced by stock-exchanges and clubs and all-night restaurants.
"Luxury and indolence," he assured us over and over again, "are eating
the heart out of modern society. We are all living too fast and too
high. We have too much money--that's what's wrong with people in our
class."
We said he was quite right and that too much money was certainly the
cause of gout and divorce and all the other ills to which we were heir.
We spoke with as much conviction as we could, while we listened to the
merry clinking in our right-hand trouser-pocket of the six dollars and
eighty-odd cents which we had received that morning along with the
I.O.U's in our pay-envelope.
"Look at what we eat," said our host, "and look at what we drink!"
Of course, our host was one of the lucky ones who still have some drink
to look at. He could therefore afford to adopt a somewhat deprecating
attitude on the subject of beverages.
Suddenly the limousine whirled off the high-road and shot along a
beautiful private driveway under swaying elm-trees. We were on the
farm! Wildly we gazed about for the fields of grain, the hog-lot and the
cow-pasture, the big red barn, and, and all the other familiar
stage-properties of our agricultural tragedy of years before. But we saw
none of these things.
Instead our eye rested on well-groomed apple-orchards and cherry-groves,
on clumps of pines and Japanese summer-houses, on strawberry-patches and
vegetable gardens. The vegetable gardens may seem to the reader to
suggest farming. But the "kitchen-garden" on a real farm is merely a
frowsy patch where "table truck" is grown. This particular vegetable
garden was the work of a landscape artist. Judging by the amount of
toil which had been put into designing it and weeding it and picking
bugs off it, every potato or carrot would cost about forty cents each.
The big car swung on a wide curve, and "round the cape of a sudden came
the Lake!" Browning!--we know. We do that sort of thing now and then
just to show that we are a literary editor in the half of the week that
we don't spend farming with our friends among the idle rich.
There was good old Lake Ontario shimmering in the glimmering sunlight,
or glimmering in the shimmering sunlight--it works either way. And
there was the thirty-thousand-dollar farmhouse nestling in the midst of
ten acres of lawn. There, too, was the farmer's wife on the steps to
welcome us--she was clad in a simple little importation from the Rue de
la Paix. It was a lovely rural scene.
"Well, and what do you think of the farm?" asked our host.
Farm! Good Lord! Our thoughts leaped back to the real farms we had
known, and in a broken voice we tried to tell him that this was the sort
of farm we had dreamed of but never worked on. This was farming as it
should be--farming de luxe.
We began farm-life that very afternoon on the grounds of the adjacent
golf-club, where we planted several balls in various parts of the
landscape and couldn't find them again. There would be a very decent
little grove of rubber-plants on that course in a year or so, if they
would let us play there a few times.
Then we went back to the farm for dinner and had a sample of the
farm-fare. It was a simple repast of seven or eight courses. One of
the farm-hands, a butler, waited on table. Most of the food was of the
sort that we try to conceal on the menu-card from a lady, in case she
should order it and we would have to leave our watch with the waiter.
In the midst of the meal there was a solemn pause. We felt dimly that
some marvel of the culinary art was about to appear. In came the butler
with an air of importance and a silver dish containing six or seven
anaemic radishes.
"Grown on the place!" said our host in the tone of a man who expects to
astonish. He glanced with pride at his wife and she glanced back in
affectionate joy at him. Theirs was the delight with which young
parents exhibit their first-born.
We nibbled a little piece out of one, while they leaned back and waited
confidently for our words of almost incredulous admiration. We are a
bad liar as a rule--persistent, that is, but unsuccessful--but we would
have cut off our right hand rather than disappoint that good man and
that dear lady, so charming both of them in their simple faith. It had
taken fifty or sixty thousand dollars and several years of thought and
labor to produce those poor runts of radishes. So we forgot all the
lessons of truthfulness that we had learned at our mother's
knee--perhaps we should say, while laid across our mother's knee--and
swore that they were the finest radishes we had ever tasted, and that no
joy in life was equal to eating the vegetables grown on one's own
door-step, so to speak.
"You're right, my boy, you're right," beamed our host. "The only truly
happy and independent man on earth is the farmer."
The next day they showed us over the farm. We saw the aristocratic cows,
whose ancestry went back as far as that of the kings of Ireland. Their
milk, at a low estimate, must have cost about as much as a vintage wine.
We were particularly interested in the hens. They all belonged to the
royal families of hendom. Most of them had been exhibited and had won
ribbons or medals or whatever it is they give hens. They certainly were
beautiful in a poultry way, but they seemed cold and proud. Our host
said they didn't lay very well. We suggested it might be for the same
reason as prevents people in the smart set from having any children.
"No, I don't think it's that," said our host very earnestly. "I believe
it's because they haven't enough to interest them. I read in a poultry
book the other day that hens must be kept bright and cheerful."
We recommended comic selections on a gramaphone. We also asked him if he
had ever tried reading our articles to these haughty fowl. We felt that
might draw a cluck or two of amusement out of them. But he treated our
remarks with the silent contempt they no doubt deserved. We would like
to tell a lot about life on that farm--about the trip in our host's big
motor-boat, and the dance in the evening, and the horse-back rides on
high-stepping horses that chinned themselves at every step and were
always going up when we were coming down. We would like to tell also
about the tennis and the billiards and the canoeing.
We would like to do all this, but we haven't the heart. Some real
farmer might read this article, and go right out to his barn, and fasten
a bit of rope between his neck and a beam, and kick the box over. Our
only hope is that if one should happen to see this, he will merely grunt
to "maw" that we are another of "them dern slick liars in the city," and
refuse to believe a word of it. We don't wish to spoil his life.
[Illustration: STRINGENCIES AND HOW TO STRINGE]
*Stringencies and How to Stringe in Them*
It is extraordinary and also somewhat disconcerting how prayers are
sometimes answered. When we were a little boy we were often warned by
pious relatives of the perils of too much wealth--usually when we
displayed a pagan desire for pocket money. Local pulpiteers also added
their authority to this doctrine, reinforcing it with excerpts from Holy
Writ. As a result our young soul was filled with horror at the thought
of millionaires and camels trying to crawl through the eyes of needles.
And, being a very earnest-minded little boy, we prayed that we might
never be rich.
This prayer has been answered. We are not rich. Moreover, present
indications are that we will never be rich. Whether or not our
character has been benefited by the chronic depression which has been
the outstanding feature of our financial career, we are in no position,
and are far too modest, anyway, to state. There are times, however,
when we would like to test our moral fibre by exposing it to the
seductions of wealth. We might even like to succumb once or twice, or
three or four times or oftener, just to show that we are one of those
supermen who can "take it or leave it alone." But these opportunities
for moral "swank" have been denied us.
We prayed for poverty and we got it. We have prayed for a lot of other
things in our time, which we haven't got. But the celestial Committee
on Prayers certainly O.K'd that poverty-petition of ours. They gave it
to us "good and plenty," in the vulgar idiom. Of course, there is no
use at this late date in explaining to the Powers that we were only
praying against becoming a millionaire--half a million would more than
satisfy our modest requirements. The thing is settled. As a result we
have become mighty careful what we pray for. There is always a chance
that we might get it.
This introduction is by way of letting the reader know that
stringencies, such as the one through which we have all been passing
ever since peace started, are no new thing with us. We are quite
undismayed by the present state of the markets of the world. We are
facing the situation with unruffled brow and the assured air which
bespeaks long experience. We know how to deal with stringencies. We
have tackled many of them. In fact, we have reason to regard ourself as
one of the best little stringe-ists in this part of the country; and we
are prepared to stringe with anyone of our financial weight for a
reasonable purse and a modest side-bet.
There was that time, for instance, Friend Reader, that we went broke in
'Frisco, many, many miles from home and mother and the bed in the spare
room. In a week we were acquainted with every free-lunch counter and
ten-cent restaurant in the City of the Golden Gate. As a result of the
acquaintance we developed a horror of "boiled beef Spanish," which has
remained with us to the present day. And we ended up on a dairy
ranch--thirty per and our keep! But let us draw the veil--we hate to
think of the way we used to talk to those cows.
Stringent experience such as ours is a very valuable thing at a time
like this, and we feel that it is in the nature of a public duty for us
to lay before our readers--the whole five of them--the ripe results of
our painfully acquired wisdom. Of course, we may be compelled to make
revelations of a personal nature; but we don't mind. We can stand it.
We have no social position that we need be worried to lose.
The trouble with the general public is that so few people know how to
tackle a stringency. They are impulsive and unscientific. They go at it
in a precipitate, not to say temerarious, manner.
Take, for instance, all those eager little housewives who rushed right
out on the news of the declaration of war and tried to corner all the
flour the grocer had, and all the bacon in the butcher-shop, forgetting
that by the time the family had eaten about one-fifth of the supply, the
flour would make a Limburger cheese seem like sweet hay for aroma, and
the bacon would be scratching at the cellar door to get out. They even
bought crates of eggs and oranges and cart-loads of vegetables!
Men's notions of economy are frequently not much better. We have a
friend--oh, we still manage to keep one or two--who announced not long
ago that he had given up cigars. He said they cost too much. We were
rather sorry to hear of his decision, for he is one of those large,
expansive fellows who are becoming to a cigar--he smokes them with the
band on. We expressed our surprise.
"Not giving up smoking altogether, are you?" we asked. "Won't you find
it difficult to think without nicotine to act as a...."
"Certainly I'm not giving up smoking! I've taken to a pipe, and believe
me, my boy, it's the only smoke that...."
But you know how they all talk the first few days.
He showed the pipe to us. It was a beautiful thing, meerschaum, all
dolled up with gold and amber. And it reposed in the cutest little
case--one of those plush and papier-mache affairs that add a dollar and
a half to the cost of any pipe. They are really worth about seven
cents.
He showed us also a new tobacco pouch--grained leather, with gold
monogram and rubber lining. Eight dollars, if it cost a cent!
Under his arm he carried a tin of tobacco that looked as big as a
hat-box, and his pockets were full of pipe-cleaners, special ash-trays,
and a patent combination arrangement of tools with which you could tamp
the tobacco down in your pipe, gouge holes in the wad if you got it too
tight, scrape the charcoal off the sides, and dig the pipe out when you
had smoked it. All the thing lacked was a compartment in the end for
ice to cool your tongue.
Altogether the outfit cost about twenty-five or thirty dollars. We said
nothing. The thing was too pathetic. Three days later we met him
smoking a cigar--still with the band on. He looked us straight in the
eye with a truculent air, as though daring us to make a comment. We
didn't. We knew how he felt. We had been through it all ourself.
Personally we have taken to smoking cheaper cigars, ever since that last
increase in taxes. In our days of affluence we used to walk into the
shop of our favorite tobacconist, and throwing down a quarter with a
reckless hand, would say, "Gimme three!" Now we slip into a
drug-store--we cannot bear to abate a jot of our lordly air in the
presence of our tobacconist--and dejectedly buy a "five-cent straight,"
though they cost ten cents now.
(No, girls, the cigars are not always straight, nor are they always made
of straight tobacco--on the contrary! We presume that they were called
"five-cent straights" because they were bought by people in straightened
circumstances, in dire straits, so to speak.)
In happier days if we had dared to smoke five-centers around the office,
we would have been subjected to nasty personal remarks from the other
members of the staff. But nobody says anything now. They are smoking
stogies themselves, or consorting with pipes of ill-repute. The
Financial Editor in the room next door smokes a villainous briar that
growls even at its owner. We hate to say this, but only the other day
we put our hand too near it as it lay on his desk asleep, and it almost
got our little finger.
Not only are we smoking cheaper cigars, but we are making them last
longer. How do we do this? Easily, dear reader, easily. We don't
light them, that's all! We bite the end off very carefully, and insert
the cigar at a rakish angle in the middle of our expression, and carry
it around like that for nearly an hour before we touch a match to it.
That way two cigars can be made to do the work of six. The worst of
lighting a cigar is that it becomes oxidized so quickly. After that it
isn't any good, except possibly as tooth-powder.
Another economy we indulged in during last fall was the buying of a
straw hat. Of course, it may at first seem rather late in the season
for one to start in and buy a "boater." But we got this one for
ninety-eight cents--a three-dollar hat, the salesman assured us. But
more of that anon.
You see, we had met our old friend Bjones on the street, carrying under
his arm a box about the size of those they crate oranges in.
"G'wan in and buy one before they're all sold," he gasped, "greatest
bargain I ever saw!"
"But what are they?" we asked, displaying an indulgent interest by
ceasing to twirl our silver-mounted cane--(yes, a present from a lady).
"Hats, of course--ninety-eight cents--worth three and a half or four!
Just bought six of them. Everything going up--got to keep supplied, you
know."
We never stopped to reflect that Bjones would take the next six years to
wear those hats out, and that his wife would probably divorce him if he
tried. In fact, that may have been part of his plan. But we caught the
fever from him. We hunted up the store and rushed right in. There was
a big table of sailor straws, with about thirty men grabbing them up and
trying them on. The lot didn't contain our exact size, so we took the
nearest we could get. It was a little small, and it sat up on our head
in a way that suggested an amateur performance of "H.M.S. Pinafore."
But it was a very nice hat. That is, we thought it a nice hat.
Candor, however, compels us to state that we showed it to a friend in
the hat business whom we met while we were triumphantly carrying it
home. We asked him if he didn't think it was a mighty nice hat.
"Oh, yes, it's a nice hat all right," he answered cordially. "Why,
those hats cost forty-nine cents each, buying them by the dozen
wholesale!"
We tried to ascribe his words to professional jealousy. But somehow we
took a sudden scunner against that hat. In fact, we tried a few days
later to give it to the office-boy. But he declined. He sports a
six-dollar one himself. Besides, his head is bigger than ours.
We have also been looking at some celluloid collars lately--just
looking, you understand. Of course, we wouldn't think of wearing one of
the things, but it is just as well to keep them in mind, for you never
can tell, with the price of laundering where it is. Besides, they
aren't so bad--a little blue and shiny, perhaps, and with peculiar
button-holes. But with the washer-ladies buying closed cars, and the
stringency becoming more stringent all the time, it is well to know of
collars that can be done up with a tooth-brush or simply left on the
neck when taking a bath.
But we have no intention of wearying the reader with a further account
of those symptoms of a financial depression which has long since become
chronic with us. We are no more depressed now than we ever were, except
inasmuch as any kindly and sensitive heart must be depressed at the
sight of widespread destitution--especially among millionaires.
Depression--and when we speak of depression we naturally refer to
financial depression and not to the state of a man's liver or
conscience--depression, we repeat, is largely a relative matter. A man
is depressed or otherwise in comparison with the high-water mark of his
prosperity. A financial status which would make the hairs of John D.
Rockefeller's Sunday wig rise up in separate and individual horror,
might cause us in sheer exuberance of joy to buy and stock a "Winter
Garden" just for ourself alone. In view of the jeopardy which would
ensue for our eternal salvation, we are glad--or should be that this is
not immediately imminent.
It is really the rich who suffer most in a period of stringency. The
mental anguish of hardened stringe-ists like ourself is nothing to what
must be endured by the people who have never before had to ask the price
of anything. We met one of them not long ago on the street. He is not
a regular millionaire--only an intermittent, so to speak. Every little
while he manages to chin himself on the trapeze of wealth, though he
never quite succeeds in climbing securely into it. He was looking very
gloomy, his suit needed pressing, and the diamond in his tie seemed
smaller and less brilliant than of yore.
"Hello, old pirate, why so glum?" we asked insolently--we always make a
point of being rude to millionaires. "What's the trouble?--those
naughty stocks misbehaving again, or does some fresh Aleck of a
legislator propose to investigate you?"
He looked at us with a melancholy and lack-lustre eye. There was none
of the old bounce and condescension in his manner.
"It's all right for you chaps to make bum jokes," he grumbled. "You're
on Easy Street. What difference does the depression make to you? You
haven't promised a new touring-car to your wife as I did. And now the
poor little girl has to worry along on last year's model. And I could
only give her a pearl pendant for her birthday instead of the diamond
sun-burst she wanted. While you...."
But we hurried away. Far be it from us to stand idly by and gaze upon a
strong man's agony. The vision of that defeated and broken man has
followed us ever since. Not even the little sunburst she wanted--gawd,
can such things be! Why doesn't someone start another war so that he
can get back into the munitions business? There must be dozens of
others like him. And while these deserving millionaires are in this
state of comparative destitution, here are gay, care-free fellows like
ourself swaggering about town, jingling the quarter against the small
change in our pocket, and wondering whether we will blow it on two
cigars or on three. It doesn't seem fair, does it?
It has been said thousands of times--therefore, we have no hesitation in
repeating--that one-half the world doesn't know how the other half
lives. Not that millionaires constitute half the world--God forbid!
They are not even the emerged tenth, if we may say so. But it is none
the less true that the rest of us don't know how they live.
You may see the magnificent, yea, verily, the palatial residences they
have built after the model of famous prisons and royal stables abroad.
You may hear the accents and see the spats of their sons who have been
to Oxford--in fact, you can almost see the accents and hear the spats.
You may gaze upon their daughters at theatre-parties, clad in feathers
and the rail of the box, with nothing between them and lumbago but the
backs of their chairs. You may be dazzled by the flash of the
twenty-carat headlight in fawther's dress-shirt, or by the soft
refulgence of mother's stomacher of pearls. You may witness all
this--you may even envy it. But little you know the breaking heart that
may lurk in the limousine.
To look at the average millionaire you would never suspect what worm may
prey upon his damask cheek--or should we say, damaged cheek? The gilded
sausages of his double watch-chain may be as ponderous and resplendent
as ever. The crease in his trousers and the shine on his shoes may
still show the skill and energy of an expensive valet. He may curse at
the waiters in his old lordly manner, even though he no longer is able
to order his cocktails in a tumbler. But he is not at peace within.
If you are a shrewd observer you will notice that his sixty-cent cigar
is not quite at the old aggressive, betcha-million-dollars angle. And
the familiar wad of mazuma in the right-hand front pocket of the pants
is not so swollen as of yore. We should say it is thinner by several
one-hundred-dollar bills. In fact, it may be padded up with fives and
tens and other bills of small denomination just to make it look good.