The boy again did his best, but the old man only heard “soap” and “days,” and happily, imagination came to his aid and framed: “I hope for happy days!” The old man looked at his wife for a moment, and there was a mighty struggle in his mind. Finally he hunted for their community ear trumpet, and marched across the room to her side. At great cost of pride he put the tube of the trumpet to her ear and shouted: “I’d like to _make_ it happy days, Mary; and I kinda think I was part wrong. Anyway, here I be speaking first.” Aunt Mary took her turn at the trumpet. “Reuben, I’m awful glad you spoke first. Thinking it over, I guess I was a little to blame, too, but not half as much as you were!” And Reuben saw visions of his old courting days, when they could both hear whispered confidences, when this gray and wrinkled woman was a blooming girl. And the old man rose to heights of wild extravagance. “Here, boy,” he said, “I’ll give you ten cents to go out to the shed and split an armful of that soft pine.” And after the door closed behind him—well, there is a human language which needs no words for its interpretation; it is action. It is no wonder that when the boy returned Aunt Mary was so flustered that instead of filling the pail with the skim-milk, she poured in fine cream! That baby had a full supply of vitamines for once. I am acquainted with a young man who once went out into a country neighborhood to canvass for a subscription book. This man was somewhat deaf, just enough to make him mix words a little. Of course, he had no business to serve as a book agent, but the deaf will sometimes attempt strange things. He stopped at one farmhouse and found a middle-aged man and woman in the sitting-room. The man was evidently annoyed and embarrassed by the book agent’s entrance, but the latter paid little attention. He ran glibly through his story twice, and finished as usual, handing his pencil over with his usual persuasive: “Sign right here, on this dotted line.” “Not on your life,” was the man’s response; but the agent heard only one word distinctly, and got that wrong. He understood: “Talk to my wife,” and, being on the lookout for any encouragement, he proceeded to do this in his best style. “Why, madam, think for a moment what it will mean to have this beautiful book on your center table. When your husband here comes in from his work it will entertain him and give him a kindly regard for his family. And, madam, consider your children. When they come to the age of maturity with such parents—” But that was as far as he could go, for the woman dropped her work, screamed and ran from the room, leaving the book agent completely mystified over what he had said to start such a scene. The man glanced at him for a moment, and then snorted with satisfaction. He rose and started after the woman, only halting in the doorway to say: “It’s a good idea, all right. You wait here until I come back.”