I’M fond of coin, but I don’t itch to be among the idle rich, who have
long green to burn; their wealth I could not well employ, for I could
never much enjoy the bone I did not earn. Oh, every coin of mine is wet
with honest, rich, transparent sweat, until it has been dried; it
represents no sire’s bequest, no buried miser’s treasure chest, no
“multi’s” pomp and pride. I grind my anthem mill at home, and every time
I make a pome, I take in fifty cents; I get more pleasure blowing in
this hard-earned, sweat-stained slice of tin, than do the wealthy gents.
Their coin comes easy as the rain, it represents no stress or strain, no
toil in shop or den; they use their wealth to buy and sell, like taking
water from a well; the hole fills up again. We do not value much the
thing, which, like an everlasting spring, wells up, year after year; if
you’d appreciate a bone, you have to earn it with a groan, and soak it
with a tear. I’d rather have the rusty dime for which I labored
overtime, and sprained a wing or slat, than have the large and shining
buck that Fortune handed me, or Luck; get wise, rich lad, to that.
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