I’d like to deal in lumber, and sell, for honest mon, good shingles without number, and scantling by the ton; I’d like to hand out timber to patrons, all day long; the moulding, thin and limber, the pillar firm and strong; for when a man is selling such things, which hit the spot, to build the stately dwelling, the store and humble cot, he feels that he is helping to push the world along, and so we hear him yelping a sweet and joyous song. I’d like to deal in lumber, for then I’d have a hand in rousing from its slumber, the tired and stagnant land; whene’er I sold a package, and put away the dimes, I’d say, “I’m building trackage, toward the better times!” Pride’s blush would then be mantling my bulging brow upon; and when I sold a scantling I’d help the old world on. I’d help to build the silo, which fills a pressing need, in which the rural Milo heaps up his juicy feed; I’d help to build the cottage in which the Newlyweds consume their home-made pottage, with sunshine in their heads; I’d help to build the palace where Crœsus counts his chink, and hits the golden chalice when he would have a drink. I’d help to build the cities, where busy people dwell; it is a thousand pities I have no boards to sell! I want to have a hand in all good things that’s going on; I’d hate to be astandin’ two idle feet upon! I’d hate to deal in moonshine, or take the shining plunk for goods which have the prune shine of gold bricks or of junk. You’ll find some merchants funny throughout this blooming earth; I’d not enjoy my money, unless I gave its worth; unless the goods I deal in had useful end and aim, though coin came in a-peltin’, I’d not enjoy the game. I’d like to deal in lumber, in lime and lath, by jings, thus helping to encumber the world with handsome things; I’d like to have a finger in every worthy pie, I’d like my name to linger behind me when I die. The lumber dealers figure in every useful scheme, in everything that’s bigger than is an empty dream. GOOD SIGNS When farmers bring their teams to town, and then drive home again, their heavy wagons loaded down with boards and joists, why, then, it is a sign that things are well, the goose is hanging high; and you may safely dance and yell, for better times are nigh. All farmers who are safe and sane like handsome cribs and barns, and for old shacks that let in rain they do not give three darns; but when the hogs are dying off, of cholera or mumps, the farmer, with affliction filled, looks on the old shacks near, and says, “I can’t afford to build until some other year.”