WITH deep and ancient tomes to toil, and burn the midnight Standard oil
may seem a job forbidding; but it’s the proper thing to do, whene’er you
have the time, if you would have a mind non-skidding. If one in social
spheres would shine, he ought to cut out pool and wine, and give some
time to study; load up with wisdom to the guards and read the message of
the bards from Homer down to Ruddy. How often conversation flags, how
oft the weary evening drags, when people get together, when they have
sprung their ancient yawps about the outlook of the crops, the groundhog
and the weather. How blest the gent who entertains, who’s loaded up his
active brains with lore that’s worth repeating, the man of knowledge,
who can talk of other things than wheat and stock and politics and
eating! Our lives are lustreless and gray because we sweat around all
day and think of naught but lucre; and when we’re at our inglenooks we
never open helpful books, but fool with bridge or euchre. Exhausted by
the beastly grind we do not try to store the mind with matters worth the
knowing; our lives are spent in hunting cash, and when we die we make no
splash, and none regrets our going.
[Illustration]
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