I USED to run a beeswax store at Punktown-in-the-Hole, and people asked
me o’er and o’er, “Why don’t you deal in coal? The beeswax trade will
never pay—you know that it’s a sell; if you take in ten bones a day, you
think you’re doing well.”
Thus spake these thoughtful friends of mine; I heard their rigmarole,
and straightway quit the beeswax line, and started selling coal. I built
up quite a trade in slate, delivered by the pound, and just when I could
pay the freight, my friends again came round. “Great Scott!” they cried,
“you ought to quit this dark and dirty trade! To clean your face of
grime and grit we’d need a hoe and spade! Quit dealing in such dusty
wares, and make yourself look slick; lay in a stock of Belgian hares,
and you’ll make money quick.”
I bought a thousand Belgian brutes, and watched them beige around, and
said: “I’ll fatten these galoots and sell them by the pound, and then
I’ll have all kinds of kale, to pleasure to devote; around this blamed
old world I’ll sail in my own motor boat.” But when the hares were
getting fat, my friends began to hiss: “Great Caesar! Would you look at
that! What foolishness is this? Why wear out leg and back and arm
pursuing idle fads? You ought to have a ginseng farm, and then you’d
nail the scads.”
The scheme to me seemed good and grand; I sold the Belgian brutes, and
then I bought a strip of land and planted ginseng roots. I hoped to see
them come up strong, and tilled them years and years, until the sheriff
came along and took me by the ears. And as he pushed me off to jail, I
passed that beeswax store; the owner, loaded down with kale, was
standing in the door. “If you had stayed right here,” he said, “you’d
now be doing well; you would not by the ears be led toward a loathsome
cell. But always to disaster wends the man who has no spine, who always
listens to his friends, and thinks their counsel fine.”
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“THANKS”
THE lumber man wrapped up some planks, for which I paid a yen, and as I
left he murmured, “Thanks! I hope you’ll call again!”
Such little courtesies as this make business worth the while; they fill
a customer with bliss and give his mug a smile. Politeness never fails
to win, and bring the trade your way; when I have cash I blow it in with
dealers blithe and gay.
Of course, in every merchant’s joint, there are a thousand cares, which
file his temper to a point, and give his brow gray hairs. And he should
have a goat, no doubt, on which to vent his spite; a sawdust dummy, good
and stout, should do for that all right. And then, when burdened with
his woe, he might a while withdraw, and to the basement gaily go, and
smash that dummy’s jaw. And when he’d sprained the dummy’s back, and
spoiled its starboard glim, he to his duties would retrack, refreshed
and full of vim.
Some outlet for his flowing bile—on this each man depends; but he should
always have a smile and “Thank you” for his friends.
When I am needing further planks, to make a chicken pen, I’ll seek the
merchant who said, “Thanks! I hope you’ll come again!” I feel that I am
welcome there, in that man’s scantling store, and I can use the office
chair or sleep upon the floor. His cordial treatment makes me pant to
patronize such gents; and I shall wed his maiden aunt and borrow fifty
cents.
I’d sing his praises day and night, if singing were allowed; the man
consistently polite will always charm the crowd.
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