I think I can fairly hold my own in such a combat, and the audience that was assembled, generally seemed to think so, but imagine the way the fur began to fly when Hubbard arrived and chipped in, and Marshall and Von, and Bert II, and each of the others. Talk about a stranger dog set on by a dozen home dogs--it was nothing, compared with the fun we had badgering and baiting that over-confident spieler. Then I moved on to the next stand, far enough away, however, so that no one was aware of our plot. The crowd soon "tumbled" and followed, and we repeated the game to the infinite amazement of the discomfited "barkers." It was the wildest revelry of good-natured, good-humored, spontaneous fun I have ever engaged in, and a thousand years can never efface its memory. Dignity! What had we to do with dignity? We were fun-makers, delight-makers, like the old-time Indians of the cliff-dwelling days, and we went into the game with vim, energy, earnestness, abandon, and enthusiasm. And I learned a wonderful lesson, once, from Marshall Wilder, that was worth many a long-winded sermon for practical usefulness in meeting the hardships, the woes, the pains of life. I was on the stage of a theater with him, just preparatory to his "act." He was suffering excruciating agony--as he often did, from his frail and deformed body--and sweat was pouring down his brow and cheeks. "Put your arms around me, and love me tight, George!" he gasped, "hold me tight," and I held him, clasping his hands also in mine. He gripped me with fierce intensity, clearly indicating the pain he was in, and thus we stood, until the call came for him. Then, wiping his brow and face, with a smile that was at once ghastly and sweet in its pathos, he rushed before his audience, and had them laughing at his merry quips and quirks, his jests and jokes, before I could recover from the sympathy I felt for his deep suffering. Brave, courageous, plucky Marsh. Ready to make fun for others in spite of his own pain. How often when men come to me with long drawn-out tales of their woes, _their_ pains, _their_ sufferings, _their_ trials, _their_ hardships, do I feel like saying to them: "Cut it out! Go and do as did Marsh Wilder. Make some one else laugh. Make some one else happy, and you'll forget your own troubles!" For it is true. The very effort of concentration upon making others laugh, or add to their happiness, largely, if not completely, leads to a forgetfulness of one's own woes.