Old Bullion has a stack of rich things in his shack; of Persian rugs
and antique jugs and costly bric-a-brac. There's art work in the hall,
fine paintings on the wall; and yet a gloom as of the tomb is hanging
over all. Here costly books abound. "This cost a thousand pound; that
trade-mark blur means Elzivir--I've nothing cheap around. Here's Venus
in the foam; the statue came from Rome; I bought the best the world
possessed when I built up this home." Thus proudly Bullion talks, as
through his home he walks, and tells the cost of things embossed, of
vases, screens and crocks. No children's laughter rings, among those
costly things; no sounds of play by night or day; no happy housewife
sings. For romping girl or boy might easily destroy a priceless jug,
or stain a rug, and ruin Bullion's joy. The guests of Bullion yawn,
impatient to be gone, afraid they'll mar some lacquered jar, or tread
some fan upon.
Down here where Tiller dwells you hear triumphant yells of girls and
boys who play with toys, with hoops and horns and bells. 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.