A WORLD FOR SALE
Although I did not keep account of the matter, I have no hesitation in
saying that in my travelling I have met more dealers in real estate than
of any other class of men. One sat with me in the train between Hamilton
and Toronto and dwelt on the advantages of real-estate investments in
the Mountain City. Even foreign laborers who are unable to speak English
are making thousands in real estate. In the observation car, travelling
from Montreal to Boston, one of my fellow-passengers was an
international real-estate agent. He had opened subdivisions in Seattle,
Winnipeg, London, Montreal, and Brooklyn. He was one of the most
optimistic men I have ever met. He could see possibilities even in the
swamps that we passed and in the rocky slopes of New Hampshire and
Vermont that were revealed through the car windows. I suspect that he
would not hesitate to open a subdivision on the planet Mars, with a
frontage on the leading canal, if he could get an astronomer to furnish
him with a map and blue-prints. If he should decide to do this he would
have no trouble selling corner lots, for the country is full of men and
women who buy real estate on maps.
In New York I found friends debating whether to sell the homes they had
established, by thrift and industry, so that they could take advantage
of boom prices.
In Vancouver, Calgary, Edmonton, and Winnipeg it had been the same. Not
only city properties, but farm lands were for sale everywhere. The
friends I visited were all dealing in real estate on the side--no matter
what their professions might be. This preoccupation led to some amusing
consequences, and I have a happy recollection of one joyous half-hour in
a mining town in British Columbia. I had been visiting a great smelter
in the company of an engineer who dealt in real estate on the side.
As we were leaving the smelter he introduced me to the smoke expert of
the institution. That sounds innocent enough, for, like me, you probably
do not know what a "smoke expert" is. I asked for explanations, and
right there the trouble began. I found that the "smoke expert" is really
a botanical pathologist, whose business it is to show that smelter smoke
does not cause all the damage that afflicts the crops of farmers and
orchardists within a radius of fifty miles. As the real-estate agent had
been telling me that British Columbia is entirely free from all bugs,
blights, and pests, my interest was aroused at once.
"Do you mean to tell me that there really are blights and destructive
fungi in this province?" I asked incredulously.
The "smoke expert" made a gesture of despair.
"The place is simply full of them."
"Come on! Don't listen to him!" yelled the real-estate man, recognizing
the mistake he had made. "He's the damnedest liar in British Columbia."
"Wait a minute," I replied. "I want to know. That is what I am here for.
Now, tell me please, please, what orchard pests there are?"
"Well, there are no coddling worms--"
"You'll admit that because no one ever sued the smelter for putting
coddling worms in apples. Come along! Don't listen to him!"
"But there is fire-blight on pears--"
"That's a damned lie! I have a whole orchard of pears and there has
never been a trace of fire-blight. Any fire-blight in this district has
been caused by the smoke from your blithering smelter."
"But," I reproached him, "if something like fire-blight is caused by
smelter smoke, isn't that just as bad as fire-blight? You didn't say
anything to me about smelter smoke."
"It doesn't do any damage either--at least not much."
"But the farmers have been suing us," said the smoke expert. "Of course
they had no reason to sue us because the damage was clearly done by
fire-blight."
"Nothing of the kind! And, anyway, the prevailing wind carries the
smelter smoke over the mountains where there are no orchards or farms.
Aw, come along, and don't listen to him!"
The "smoke expert" smiled sadly and shook his head with gentle
tolerance. Finding in me the first sympathetic listener he had had for
years he persisted in making revelations.
"Last fall I found an interesting case of 'withered plum--"
"You couldn't convince the jury that it was a fungous growth that
affected those plums."
"No, for they didn't want to be convinced. They wanted to soak us. Then
there was that 'clover sickness.'"
Seeing that he couldn't stop what he had started, the disgusted
real-estate agent collapsed into a chair while I had an illuminating
chat with the "smoke expert." Occasionally he interrupted with a vivid
protest, but he couldn't quench my thirst for knowledge, or the expert's
desire to impart scientific information.
"Let me tell you what the fellows did!" he at last exclaimed
triumphantly. "They took some healthy leaves and sprinkled them with
sulphuric acid. This expert diagnosed it as shot-hole fungus--a kind
that he had been looking for for years--a kind they have in Australia--"
"You're another!" said the expert. "There is real shot-hole fungus
here!"
So the battle raged, but I shall not report it further. Juries of
farmers have invariably decided against the learned and patient "smoke
expert," and I have no desire to give the province a bad reputation as
to blights and pests. I saw no evidences of them on either fruit or
trees--but I'll wager that that real-estate agent will never again
introduce his friend the "smoke expert" to a sympathetic and inquisitive
visitor.
So it was wherever I went. So it was at home in the country. Real estate
is being traded in everywhere.
A few months ago a writer in the "Toronto Globe" stated that Western
Ontario is for sale. About the same time a writer in the "Saturday
Evening Post" showed that the American corn belt is all for sale. People
everywhere are ready to sell at a profit and move on.
The result of all this was to fix in my mind the conviction that the
world is for sale.
One morning I awoke--or was I awake?--and found the world marvellously
astir. A huge red flag hung down from the zenith and a jovial auctioneer
with the moon for an auction block was about to offer the world for
sale. Satan had foreclosed his mortgage, and Chaos, "The Anarch Old,"
was looking over the property as a prospective buyer. The Soul of Man,
troubled and confused, was also in the market for the world and
wondering if the only price he could offer--a list of irksome
virtues--could possibly outweigh the alluring, shadowy, jazz-time
pleasures that his opponent would flash before the nations.
Bringing down his gavel with a crash that arrested the attention of the
universe, the auctioneer began his harangue.
"Look it over, gentlemen, look it over! Here is the greatest bargain
ever offered for sale--a perfect prize package of a planet. It has been
in existence a long time and all its possibilities are known. It is a
perfect location for either a heaven or a hell, and has all the natural
resources needed to make it one or the other. Its history shows the
attempts that have been made in both directions. Let me recount them
briefly. First, O Chaos, let me address myself to you.
"This world has just had a fiercer war than any one thought it was
possible for man to wage. Millions have been slaughtered, millions have
been wounded and crippled, millions have been starved to death, millions
have been wasted by disease. The wonderful baying of the hell-hounds of
war has been stilled, but a word would unleash the pack and they would
harry man through air and earth and sea. Famine and Pestilence are
feeding fat on the nations, and Lust, Greed, and Hate are revelling in
all the capitals. To anyone wanting to start a private hell for his own
amusement this is the greatest bargain ever offered. The work of
building is almost complete. All that is needed is a little imagination
and a consignment of sulphur. It is not ever necessary to provide a
match. The world is full of fools, both high and low, who are only
waiting for a chance to apply the match. Take my word for it, O Chaos,
you will never again have such a chance to start a summer resort of your
own, so consider well the price that you are willing to pay."
Turning to the Soul of Man, who had been reduced almost to despair by
this horrid recital, the face of the auctioneer glowed like the sun, and
with a voice as musical as summer winds in the elms he whispered:
"O Soul of Man, why art thou troubled? My words were but words of scorn
and reproof. Behold now this world with the eyes of faith. Look at the
fertile fields, flooded with sunshine--the rain-bearing clouds and the
mystery of growth. Mark the little homes that dot the plains and cling
to the wooded hills. Hear the laughter of children and the song of
birds. Even the war was rich with deeds of heroic sacrifice. Charity,
Mercy, and Science are striving to overtake Famine and Pestilence.
Brotherhood waits for leadership. Truly there is here the matter for a
new earth that will be a new heaven. Consider well the price that you
are willing to pay."
Lifting up his voice till the universe rang with it, the auctioneer
shouted:
"The sale is now on! What am I bid for this pendulous planet that swings
forever from the throne of the sun? There is no reserve bid. The sale
must be concluded to-day. What am I bid?"
"Wealth!" shouted Chaos. "Gold, silver, paper, unlimited credit!"
The nations roared applause.
"Contentment," offered the Soul of Man quietly.
The nations jeered.
Then the two bidders made alternate offers. Chaos began:
"Palaces!"
"Homes."
"Power!"
"Brotherhood."
"Idleness!"
"Industry."
"Extravagance!"
"Thrift."
"License!"
"Order."
While the bidding proceeded, tumult broke out among the nations. Some
favored one bidder; some the other. As the tumult grew, the War God,
who always walks before Chaos, tossed his plumed helmet and marshalled
all his enginery. Once more his sword was to reap its harvest.
"The Eternal, to prevent such horrid fray,
Hung forth in heaven his golden scales, yet seen
Betwixt Astrea and the Scorpion sign,
Wherein all things created first he weighed,
... In these he put two weights,
The sequel each of parting and of fight;
The latter quick up-flew, and kicked the beam;
... The fiend looked up and knew
His mounted scale above; no more; but fled
Murmuring, and with him fled the shades of night."
The great auctioneer brought down his gavel.
"Sold to the Soul of Man, for a price that he can well afford to pay!"
Then I was awake, indeed, and as I looked about me I saw the fields
flooded with sunshine, felt the caress of the summer breeze, and heard
the song of birds. The children were shouting at their play--and the
home was my home.
My brothers, we have a good bargain!