GOING AFTER THEM Our lumber man, McMellow, is quite a hustling fellow, he’s ever after trade. He says, “I’ve faith in jumping around for biz, and humping--I’ve always found it paid. I think,” remarks McMellow, “that there’s a streak of yellow in any gloomy lad, who spends his time complaining, against the breeching straining, and says that trade is bad. “My trade is what I make it; and I could blamed soon break it, if I had doleful dumps, but when I find things dragging, I set my brains a-wagging and do some fancy humps. “Today I heard John Abel intends to build a stable, about eight miles from town; as there was nothing doing, and no excitement brewing, to hold this village down, I thought I’d go and meet him, and to some language treat him, and sell a little bill; and right there I enrolled him a customer and sold him the roof-tree and the sill. “Keep busy is my motto; I have a small tin auto that scoots along with vim; and when I hear some granger intends to build a manger, I burn the road to him. The people see me scooting, they see me skally-hooting, mile after breezy mile; they say, ‘He is so busy, he fairly makes us dizzy--we kind o’ like his style.’ “And when they want some woodwork--and want the best of good work, which is the Curtis kind--or joists or lath or siding, to me they come a’riding--that’s business, do ye mind?” You never see him slouching, you never see him grouching, or talking of despair; he always keeps things humming, he’s always up a-coming, his hind feet in the air. SUGGESTION Some merchants are so all-fired dumb, you wonder how they ever come to sell the stuff they have in store, and keep the sheriff from the door. Old Binkson is a lot that way; he seldom has a word to say. I ask him for a pound of lime; he wraps it up, and all the time, he wears a tragic air of doom, and sheds an atmosphere of gloom. He never chats, he never spiels, nor jumps up high and cracks his heels. He isn’t grouchy or unstrung; he never learned to wag his tongue. Oh, silence is a golden thing, when ’tisn’t worked too hard, by jing. But none of us will stand up strong for men who gabble all day long, and elocute a thousand miles in fifty-seven varied styles. The dealer who is prone to talk until you hear him round a block, is worse than t’other kind of bird, who’s never known to spring a word. But if you’ve scantling you would sell, you ought to boost it wisely well, and if a gent should buy a plank, to build himself a dipping tank, you might suggest ere home he speeds, that you have other things he needs. I called on Lumber Dealer Gaff, to buy a shingle and a half. He put my purchase in a sack, and wrapped a string around and back, and as he toiled, in manner gay, he talked to pass the time away. “The farmers now, in busy troops, are building stately chicken coops; the winter soon will hit the road, and hens must have a warm abode, or they won’t lay their luscious eggs, but stand around on frozen legs.”